


Aria of Memory

by rvd1945



Category: Original Work
Genre: Brothels, F/F, Final Fantasy - Freeform, Friendship, Gen, Isekai, M/M, Rivalry, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:55:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 123,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24029233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rvd1945/pseuds/rvd1945
Summary: Try as one might, the will of the Crystals shall not be denied. As ashes turn to ashes and dust turns to dust, so too does the radiant brilliance dim to deepest darkness. The Fallen One—a young woman of unknown origin, afflicted with amnesia, has come to the Star where the Crystals once held sway. Imbued with power beyond her ken and chosen to bear a burdensome mantle, she fights for friends, she lives for love, she dies for duty, and like a phoenix rises anew to continue her journey. Her quest is without end—her vigil, everlasting; yet, she does not stand alone against the vicissitudes of the Forces of Ruin. Alone or not, however, she shall become what she must.TL;DR An isekai taking place in a RPG-esque setting, with a variation upon the theme that is Final Fantasy. Also available on Royal Road under the same title.
Kudos: 1





	1. Life At Last

_ Hear…  _

Gulls circled on high against the pale blue sky and the beating-down sun when her eyes opened. The sun seared into her corneas, and immediately she closed her eyes and blinked. In that moment, she discovered that she couldn’t breathe, that her lungs were full of liquid. She thrashed and managed to roll over as she retched out the contents of her lungs and her stomach, vomiting copious amounts of seawater. She coughed up the last of it, upchucking a small lump of kelp stuck in her oesophagus, before collapsing to the white sand and doing her best to catch her breath, her chest expanding and contracting, greedily sucking down air. She turned her head to the right, looking out at the roiling sea. There was copious evidence of a shipwreck off to one side, shattered masts and torn canvas sails strewn haphazardly about the shore. She scrambled, then, to her feet, looking out at the ocean from which she had presumably washed up, doing her best to scour her mind for the last thing she remembered.

_ Hear… Feel…  _

She staggered as the phantom pain of being shot erupted across her torso, and for a moment, she was convinced that the event was occurring once more. Patting herself down almost frantically, she was relieved to find that none of the bloody holes that the bullets that had shredded her body to a pulp had left behind were there, nor was there any evidence that they were ever there to begin with. She was dressed in clothes so ruined that it was difficult to tell what  _ colour  _ they were initially, let alone their designs. The clothes she wore meant that she couldn’t place the era either. After all, she watched isekai anime. She knew that that was how this went—she died in her world and wound up in another. After all, Occam’s razor, which dictated that the simplest answer was usually the correct one, allowed her to class the idea of her having somehow survived being shot and being dragged to the beach, before being miraculously healed of the gunshot wounds, as being far more complex, and therefore far less likely, than simple reincarnation a la the isekai genre. The exact details of her death—like who shot her how many times and for what reason—were fuzzy, but then again, so was everything right then. Every thought that passed through her brain shot a lancing pain through her skull.

_ Hear… Feel… Think…  _

“The fuck are you on about?!” she cried out at the sky, keenly aware of how insane she must have looked, but equally uncaring on that score. She had bigger problems, like how that woman’s voice sent excruciating agony shooting down from her head through her entire body. 

_ Find… Me…  _

That command sent her to her knees in pain. “Getting really fucking sick of this shit…”

All the same, the sensation quickly passed, and she stood once more, looking around. Directly to her left, then, was a cliff face with the yawning maw of a cave, a cave that she hoped would carry her further inland. She tried to walk towards the cliff face, but her knees buckled beneath her, sending her sprawling face-first into the sand.

__ She picked herself up and immediately set about dusting herself off. “Alright, gotta take this slow. Let’s see… Come on, just put one foot in front of the other… That’s it… Um… Fuck, what’s my name again?!”

_ This situation is fucked. I can’t even remember my own name…  _ she thought to herself; nevertheless, she plodded forth, making certain her footing was assured before she took another step. It was slow going, akin to walking in ski boots, but she managed to make it to the cave mouth before the sun had hit its zenith. Looking in at the yawning darkness within the cavern, she sighed and proceeded.

The cavern’s maw was filled with long shadows coming from the strong sun outside. She stepped carefully within, and with every step she took from the light of the sun, she felt herself grow slightly stronger, until at last her stride was not so staggered as it had been before. She walked through the cave, keeping her hand to the left wall as she walked, just in case the path forked. It didn’t—it was more like an actual cave system than the ones she was used to in video games. It wasn’t incredibly expansive, and eventually she came upon what looked to be the ruins of a temple of some kind that once existed nestled into the cave. There was a certain bluish radiance that came from deeper within, casting flickering and shifting shadows that seemed to writhe like something  _ alive.  _ Walking into the temple, she cleared an archway, and came upon a chamber that caused her to revise all her previous assessments of this cave system.

It was a chamber that was approximately three stories from floor to ceiling, if her reckoning was correct. There was a winding stone path that curled helically down to the floor of the area, and she could spy from her vantage point on the other side of the chamber a similar helical path that made the entire system of paths into a double-helix. But that was not what immediately caught her eye.

No, what immediately caught her eye was the massive, gargantuan, pale-blue crystal that rested in the centre of the chamber, bathing the entire cave system in its irrepressible radiance.

Walking down the path, after some time she came at last to the bottom of the chamber. There was an altar before the crystal, she could see, together with a great deal of iconography depicting indecipherable and esoteric scenes. Stepping forth, then, she brushed her hand along the smooth stone surface of the altar, and then decided to turn her gaze to the crystal. The enormity of its brilliance almost drove her to her knees, almost caused her to look away. She didn’t, of course, but it was a close thing. She still shielded her eyes, unused to such light even after the brightness of the sun outside—this was on an entirely different level. She reached out to the crystal, and laid her hand upon it.

Pain shot through her body, driving her to her knees and lancing into her skull like a railroad spike. She saw a quick procession of images, each more strange, alien and esoteric than the last. It seemed like a mental assault, as though it was an attempt to drive her to madness. And then, as quickly as the assault commenced, it ended, and the crystal, which had before been static, now began to spin on its axis, slowly, laconically, but undeniably spinning.

_ Welcome, child of another star. Welcome to this sacred place… _

“And the crystal talks. Because  _ of course  _ it does…”

_ Long have we waited for the one who might awaken us… _

“ _ Please  _ don’t say I’m some mystical Chosen One. That would  _ really  _ take the piss…”

_ Take this, the last sliver of power we are able to grant… _

Searing pain shot up her arm, and she heard her heart beating loudly in her chest, sending sharp, stabbing agonies through her body.

_ Arise, Fallen One, and claim thee thy birthright… _

“Fallen One? That’s new…” she mused to herself. She looked up at what was happening, and immediately was alarmed to see a black-and-red connection of energy forming between herself and the crystal. She didn’t know what was going on, but she recognised those colours, and recognised that they usually meant nothing good.

_ Serve… Save… Slave… Slay…  _

She clutched her head with one hand, unable to move her other, as a different kind of pain, the shrieking of the dead, the butchered, the forgotten, rose up in her mind like bile in her gorge, all while the feeling of being burnt at the stake mounted and spiked.

_ Is this it? Is this all that awaits? _

_ No… No more… Enough…  _

_ Open your eyes. Do you see now? Do you  _ **_see_ ** _? _

_ Girl…! Girl! _

Then, there was a flash of violet light, an explosion that blew her back, and she hit her head on the back wall of the chamber as she crashed hard into the living rock of the cavern. Blearily, she blinked, and she looked up from where she was, only to see a figure in armour standing above her. The figure knelt before her, and looked down at her. It was impossible to determine the sex of the figure simply by looking upon them, clad as they were entirely in obscuring black plate. The helm they wore was close-faced, and as such, none of the facial features shone through—save for the gaze, which was clear, sharp, and focused, reminding her of the predatory precision of a bird of prey, and yet somehow, she knew that they were not focused on hunting  _ her. _

“I’ve been waiting for you to open your eyes,” said the figure. The voice that came from the helmet was distorted and therefore androgynous; in this, too, she had no idea what sex to attribute to her…caretaker? They reached out, and she reached up to grab ahold of their icy metal grasp. “You alright? You took a pretty nasty hit to the head, there. Name’s Frey. And no, I’m not here to kill you. Though the last couple of poor sods to come this way weren’t so easily convinced of that. They attacked me, and, well, needless to say that course of action was…rather ill-advised… But how about  _ you?  _ You touched it, didn’t you? That must have been rather harrowing.”

“You could say that,” she said as the person, Frey, lifted her to her feet. “I heard…things. Something like…thousands of people crying out in pain in their last moments before their voices were silenced… And through it all, I heard someone… Someone who seemed… _ angry,  _ almost.”

“Voices, eh? And one was stronger than the others?” mused Frey. “Well. Before we leave this gods-forsaken cavern, we have to talk about what’s happening to you, the  _ thing  _ that is now gestating within you, if you’ll pardon the unfortunate pun.

“In every person, there is something called ‘the dark side of the mind.’ It’s entirely harmless, if a bit vexing at times. But something that crystal over yonder did…” Frey jerked their head towards the crystal, which now showed through with a dark and maleficent malignance, casting ever more perfidious shadows around the chamber. “...It  _ changed  _ you. Fundamentally. It altered you and gave you the ability to channel that darkness.”

Frey’s eyes began to glint and glow an infernal scarlet hue. She took a step back without meaning to, on reflex. “Without proper instruction, mind, and well… It might smart  _ just  _ a bit more than you’re used to.”

With that, Frey crossed their arms and leaned back against the wall. “So, go ahead.”

“Go ahead?” she parroted.

“Go ahead. Ask me to teach you to harness the darkness that even now roils tumultuously within you, apparent to any and all who have but eyes to see it,” Frey replied. “All you have to do is ask, and I will. But be forewarned. Those with these…abilities…are feared and reviled throughout the land. It’s not their fault—it’s an instinct. In their eyes, we embody the parts of themselves that they would much rather forget exist. Fools, the lot of them, I say—but largely understandable. By undertaking this path, however, you must first cast aside your pride, and indeed any thought of glory. We follow our hearts, not our coffers. We are not mercenaries—we are defenders of the weak and punishers of the wicked. We have no formal code, nor do we have any obligation to follow anything but our own consciences. And that…that  _ freedom… _ It frightens people, specifically powerful people who stand to lose that power that they have so perfidiously gained and maintained should ever they abuse it. We aren’t heroes. We’re not even, strictly speaking,  _ good people.  _ We have no need of that kind of sanctimony. We’re merely those who seek to do what we think is right. Knowing all of this, do you still wish to embark?”

“Do I have a choice?” she asked.

“Theoretically? Everyone has a choice,” replied Frey. “More practically, however? No, not really. Whatever that crystal did to you, it’s irreversible. Trust me—wiser and more experienced than you have tried. Tried, and died.”

“Well, I suppose that answers that question, then,” said she.

“Indeed,” said Frey.

“Well then, Frey, I am in your hands.”

Frey nodded, pushed off of the rock wall, and walked towards the path up and out of the cavern. She followed, through the path winding upwards towards the strong sun. Or so she thought—at the moment, however, night was reclaiming the heavens. Following the equivalent of walking up three flights of steps on a cave floor—barefoot, she might add—she walked out into the darkness that immediately followed the setting of the sun. She walked out of the cave mouth, and got precisely thirty metres away from it before Frey stopped, turned, and placed a hand on her chest to make absolutely certain she stopped. “Lesson number one. The darkness within you will give you strength, but it comes at a price. It is a sacrifice we all make, but justice…justice demands no less.

“Lesson number two. Saving one person necessarily means damning another. But it is a necessary sacrifice, for indecision and inaction damns both. Do you follow?” Frey continued.

She nodded.

“Good. Well, at the very least you don’t hold to that fool notion that  _ everyone  _ can be saved. That’s more than most of the half-cocked morons I usually have to teach.” Frey sighed. “That which lurks within you, just beneath the surface, thrashing like a beast to try to escape even now—that is what we call the Darkside. Fear, pain, rage—these emotions, buried at the very base of your soul, these are what fuel it. And they are  _ powerful.  _ But with power comes danger, the danger of being submerged, consumed. To deal with the Darkside is to teeter at the end of sanity, on the very verge of being destroyed by it. But  _ if  _ you can balance on that knife’s edge,  _ that  _ is where true power lies. Worry not, however; in every journey, no matter how long or arduous, the most difficult task is invariably to take the first step over the threshold.

“The process of accessing one’s Darkside is similar to weaving quintessence,” continued Frey. “Search your soul for it. Dig deep within. Call to it, and it  _ will  _ answer. Do it now. Only a sliver is needed.”

She nodded, and closed her eyes. As Frey said, just beneath the surface, she could  _ feel  _ something writhing, deeper down than she had ever experienced. She thought to herself,  _ So this must be what a soul feels like… _

She remembered, then. Remembered what it felt like to be completely inundated with pleading cries for aid, for mercy, for a hero or some absent god to save them. The screams rose as she did this, and suddenly, she realised that she was no longer remembering—no, she was hearing them anew.

_ One foot…in front of the other… Over and over again… To the ends of the world, and back again… And if time has no end, still forward and onward…over and over again…  _

_ Serve… _

_ Save…  _

_ Slave…  _

_ Slay…  _

Those last four words, each of them was like a nail being driven into her body, into the fabric of her very soul. It was pain unlike any she had ever experienced.

“That’s it… You are on the very cusp of it… The cusp of true strength… Embrace it! Strength is pain. Strength is suffering. Strength is sacrifice…” Frey encouraged. 

She stood, and that in itself was strange—she did not remember her knees buckling beneath her, at least not  _ this  _ particular time. Swirling around her was a black-and-scarlet miasma, and she lifted her hands to her view, closing them into fists. All confusion, all doubt was burned away in the fires of agony that even now raged within her, and all that remained…

“Now, release it, slowly now. I know it’s a heady drug, but the more you partake of it, the closer you come to dying, or worse. You’re not ready to handle much more. Let it go… It won’t want to, but it  _ must. You  _ are the master. The Darkside is of no greater magnitude than you yourself.  _ It  _ is a part of  _ you.  _ It is  _ not _ the other way around, no matter how it feels. And, believe me, I  _ know  _ how it feels. Breathe. In, then out. Listen to my words. Listen to your heartbeat. They will guide you out.”

She nodded sharply. Taking a deep breath through her nose, she let it out slowly, in a hiss, from between her lips. Then the fog of pain, of misery, of raw, unbridled  _ power  _ slowly began to ebb and clear, and at last, she was free. That was when the exhaustion hit her with all the force of a speeding locomotive, and she collapsed to her knees, gasping for air.

“ _ That _ is why we do not drink too deep. I told you that the power the Darkside granted would demand a price.  _ This  _ is that price. Your life force is siphoned in order to maintain your empowered state. Quintessence, that which a mage might quantify and dub ‘MP’, that is what is needed. The fatigue, the bone-deep exhaustion you feel right now—that is the world, the planet itself doing its level best to erase you from existence.”

“Why?!”

“Because you brought something that, in its estimation, should not exist out into it. It will tear the magic that radiates from you away from you as quickly as it can, and you exude magic faster than it can be torn away. Thus, if you do not manage to replenish your stores of MP before you run out, your soul will slowly be erased from the fabric of this reality.”

“Hardly seems fair,” she chuckled grimly.

“The Planet’s a vicious bitch, no two ways about it,” remarked Frey, walking over to her and putting their hand out. She reached up and grasped it, and they hauled her to her feet. “Now, it’s time to continue. The dawn is almost here.”

“Dawn…?! How long are the nights here?!”

“Roughly sixteen hours in the winter. About nine or ten in the summer. The other two seasons? Somewhere between those two figures,” said Frey.

“That  _ can’t  _ be correct! We’ve only been out here…”

“...Approximately eleven hours?” supplied Frey.

“...What?!”

“I do not believe I neglected to mention that the first step over the threshold was always the most difficult,” replied Frey. “The first communion with the Darkside always takes the longest, and usually by far. I once taught a dunce who took a full three days to even  _ perceive  _ of his Darkside, and  _ he  _ was somewhat quicker about it than average. The dark path is not easily tread, and for that reason, it is not well-tread at all. It takes time and dedication, and in your case, no small amount of natural talent. I’m impressed.”

“Well then, I guess that’s  _ somewhat  _ okay,” she said with a sigh. “I only ask that you let me know in the future when you’re about to pull a time dilation stunt like that.”

“Of course. Unfortunately, I must leave you for now. Our time together has come to an end, it seems.”

“What?! Where am I supposed to go?!”

“How should I know?” returned Frey with a shrug. “My best advice would be to choose a direction and start walking.” 

With that, they walked away, waving, until at last they disappeared into the ravenous shadows of the predawn hours.

She huffed and looked to the horizon. Indeed, the night sky seemed to be dulling from its umbral brilliance into a uniform grey colour. She regretted immediately not doing some stargazing; where she lived in her previous life, the light pollution blotted out all the stars, leaving only the lonely moon hanging in its clouded, inconstant orbit. She sighed, and looked back down to the earth, and stomped her foot onto the ground, fretting, “But I don’t even know my  _ name! _

“Oh well. What was it the voice said? That’s right. One foot in front of the other… One foot…in front of the other…”

-

_ She came with the dawn.  _

Decades, centuries, millennia later, this line was always the first used when speaking of the legend of the Fallen One. It seemed almost an obligation for the oral traditionalists of the world, and later, when the tales were transcribed, and the Fallen One’s accomplishments were penned to parchment, this line still persisted. It persisted even as so-called ‘historians’ centuries later called the historical value of the tales into doubt, and then finally, in their hubris, deemed her exploits, and thus those of the Laughing Tree, to be largely fictitious. It persisted as those same charlatans came to believe that the narrative constructed therein was  _ entirely  _ false, a parable used alternatively as an inspirational and cautionary anecdote. 

As the many stories of the exploits of the Fallen One and her fellows passed into history, then into legend, and thus, therefore, into myth, through numerous rewritings, political doctorings, and moral sanitisings, the one line that remained unchanged, untouched as though it was sacrosanct, was the first.

_ ‘She came with the dawn.’ _

Of course, as was the case with most things that are looked upon in retrospect, the arrival of the Fallen One was not so immediately auspicious as the storytellers and chronicle-writers would have one believe. When she came to the city’s gates and passed beneath the marble arches along with an influx of merchants and an outflow of farmers and landowners who were wealthy enough to live within city limits, it was not to fanfare, nor to praise. She was not immediately hailed as a saviour. In this, perhaps, the charlatans who profess, falsely, to be students of history, while simultaneously turning their backs on it, had a point. But as even a broken horologe is correct twice a day, this was hardly significant. 

No, in those days, it was talk of the exploits of but a single company of heroes that littered the streets, and it was most decidedly  _ not _ the Laughing Tree. In fact, if one were to walk those streets on that same day when the Fallen One arrived, and to ask random passers-by to pick out the Laughing Tree from the veritable  _ mobs  _ of adventuring companies, five-man-bands who wished to be heroes, sometimes for fame and fortune, and other times for more complicated reasons, such as the pursuit of a dream or aught like that, who thronged throughout and operated out of the Guilds of Adventurers that could be found in each of the four Free Cities (though those piteous fools who went directly to the headquarters of the Guild in the Grand Duchy of Rosenfaire, were swiftly and pitilessly, and often unceremoniously, rebuffed, Rosenfaire being the nominal capital of the region, though it had little governmental authority over its fellow Free Cities) they would be hard-pressed to find any who recognised that name. Those who did were uniformly elderly, stooped and gnarled men and women of various races, who spoke of the adventuring company of yesteryear, whose exploits the aforementioned company of heroes had long since eclipsed in the minds of the commonfolk; they did not speak of any of the names the hypothetical visitor from the future walking those streets would recognise.

In those days, the sole company of heroes, based out of the predominantly hume Free City known as the Republic of Bantamoor, whose names were in common parlance, was the Warriors of Light.

Thus did the Fallen One’s arrival go without auspice and without portent.

-

Walking through the streets of the city was as much of a drag as traversing a large metropolitan area had ever been for her. She passed many men and women of varying races who stopped and stared at her, and it perplexed her. She supposed that few people had seen a human here in recent times with how much of a novelty she seemed to be.

Funnily enough, a moment of startling realisation immediately succeeded that moment of supposition. This moment came when she passed by a mirror being held in front of a market stall. She only saw her reflection out of the corner of her eye, at first, but she didn’t have the security in her own sanity to dismiss it as merely a trick of the light. She backpedaled  _ almost  _ as soon as she noticed it, and stared into the depths of the looking-glass, studying her face and her features.

To this point, she had assumed that she was still wholly human. What she saw in that mirror marked that perception as patently false.

The first thing she recognised was that her features, what few of them were still remotely human, were beyond beautiful. They were ethereal. Her face was soft in both curve and contour, and her long hair that tumbled down her shoulders in a tangled mess caked with kelp petrified in the driving sun of the previous day and matted with dried seawater, was raven, the purest black that was an immediate contrast to her milky-white flesh.

The next thing she noticed were the eyes. Their pupils were slits, not like a cat’s, which would reliably dilate in low light, but rather like some kind of reptile’s, which wouldn’t. Add to that the fact that her eyes glittered and glinted an amethyst hue and with that stone’s lustre, and she was nearly startled out of her reflection. Nearly, but not quite. 

Brushing her long raven locks—and wouldn’t  _ those  _ be a fucking  _ delight _ to care for and maintain—out of her face, she touched her skin, and came into contact with what could only be described as pale white scales. They were thin and delicate, so much so that they gave quite a bit more than a reptile’s would, but the underlying texture and structure were the same. Following her scales backwards—and there were quite a few places where the scales encroached upon her skin, forming patterns that even she had to admit were fascinating, making her wonder if she had scales on other parts of her body, even though a single cursory glance at the back of her hand would tell her definitively that  _ yes _ , yes there were—she did not encounter ears as she had expected, but, and she had no idea how she had failed to notice this prior,  _ horns.  _ They were not like a rhinoceros’s horn, made from matted hair—no, these were purer than ivory, with the hue and texture, though not the hollowness, of  _ bone.  _ They were curved, turning out and forwards with a slight downward slope into a gentle inverted S shape, and helped to frame her face, and most importantly, they connected to her skull where her ears would have otherwise been.

“Oi! If yer gonna look so intently at it, buy it or scram!”

She started. Looking in the direction of the stall, she saw a small person, perhaps going up to her mid-thigh in height—and to call her ‘petite’ was to put it  _ lightly _ —whose head was encased in a helmet with a most prodigious beard attached, directing his gaze at her, which was strange because of the fact that, since the helmet seemed several times too large for his head, his eyes, and therefore the intensity of his gaze, were shrouded in shadow, leaving two luminous pseudo-‘eyes’ staring out at her.

“Yeah, I’m talking ta ye! Don’t ye go thinkin’ I’m daft enough ta believe that ol’ wives’ tale tha’ ye drahn are all bloody deaf!  _ This  _ dwarf knows ye don’t need ears ta hear her!”

“Wait,  _ her?! _ And the fuck’s a drahn?”

The—apparently female—dwarf (and wasn’t that a confusion and a half) stared at her like she had grown six heads. “Tha bloody Hel…! Are ye  _ touched,  _ lass?!  _ Yer _ a drahn! Descendents of dragons?! Tha dwarves’ natural enemies?! Even  _ if  _ ye were bundled up all furtive-like, like most o’ yer kin, ye’d easily be recognised by yer tail!”

The apparent drahn—who  _ still  _ didn’t know her own name—nodded in comprehension, before she started again. “Wait, I have a  _ tail?! _ ”

“Ye really  _ are  _ touched, ain’t ye?” sighed the dwarf. “Bang yer head or suchlike?”

“You…could say that…” said the drahn, looking back at her posterior and immediately noticing what the dwarf was talking about. “Oh.  _ That’s  _ what you were referring to…”

The tail was a long, slim appendage, going from her backside down to her ankles, plated in the same pale scales that marked the rest of her body, and with a spade at the end to really drive home what the dwarf had said.  _ Descendents of dragons…  _

The dwarf sighed again. “An’ I suppose yer here ta become an adventurer, or somesuch nonsense?”

“I…suppose… I’m quite new to this land. I don’t even know where I am right now beyond the vague terminology of ‘a city.’ A primer would be much appreciated.”

The dwarf looked to the left and to the right. “Crystals alone know why I’m doin’ this… Go ta th’ Guild o’ Adventurers. Ye cannae miss it—’tis a bloody big building, an inn, mos’ like, near tha Artisans’ District. Go in, an’ ask fer a dwarf named Maerwhentt. They’ll try ta give ye tha run-around, tell ye there’s nahbady callin’ themselves tha’. They’d be righ’, bu’ tell ‘em ol’ Gwenett sent ye, an’ they’ll let ye talk to tha Host—tha’s tha head o’ tha Guild. Then, explain yer situation, an’ they’ll bloody well get ye ou’fi’ed wi’ tha bare essentials.”

“Thank you, Gwenett,” replied the drahn.

The dwarf nodded. “I’ll jus’ chalk i’ up as me good deed fer tha day. Now, off wi’ ye. I’ve wasted enough time entertainin’ ye. I’d charge ye if ye looked ta have even a gil ta yer name. Jus’ dinnae go spreadin’ around tha’ I helped ye. I’m na runnin’ a chari’y, here. I hafta eat, too, ye know.”

The drahn bowed, and beat a hasty retreat as the dwarf shooed her away.

“Okay, Guild of Adventurer. Guild of Adventurers…” she muttered to herself as she walked the streets, no longer wandering aimlessly, but travelling with purpose. It didn’t take long before she came upon a huge building, easily three and a half stories tall, and above the door was written ‘Maelnaulde Guild of Adventurers.’

The building was squat despite its height, and like the rest of the city seemed to be constructed in an analogue of the neo-Gothic style. It was in the steepled arches of the windows and the doors, really, and in the pale-grey stone of its construction.  _ Unlike  _ cities from Earth contemporary with the style, the roads were not dirt—past the city gates, they were uniformly made from cobblestone.

“So, I suppose this anachronistic time capsule—and isn’t  _ that _ a concept and a half—is Maelnaulde. Good to know.” She walked up the stone stairs to the heavy iron-reinforced wooden double-doors, and cast them wide open. With the eyes of every adventurer in the Guild suddenly fixed squarely upon her, she smirked.

_ And so it begins… _


	2. My Kingdom for a Sword

“Alright, the process is very simple. You prick your finger with the tip of this here quill, and your blood will tell us your name while transcribing it into the registry.”

“Sounds a bit ghoulish…”

“Hey, it’s reliable. You want cutting-edge magitek, you’ve come to the wrong city.”

The drahn sighed. The dwarf she had been sent to find, Maerwhentt, was apparently the grouchy dwarf woman Gwenett’s younger brother, she had found out rather quickly once the dwarf came from the kitchens of the inn that doubled as the Guild of Adventurers in this city, and she was quickly coming to find out that while Gwenett was long-suffering and perhaps somewhat short-tempered, Maerwhentt had a chip on his shoulder large enough to qualify as the Sphinx’s missing nose. Interestingly enough, Maerwhentt had no beard, nor did he have an overlarge helm; his face was, while young, not nearly that of a human child’s. The proportions were entirely off, and that was immediately apparent. He had the figure of a potato and waddled like a penguin before ascending the footstool behind the bar, bringing down the massive tome that even now rested open and spread out before the two. His hair was russet and his eyes were bright blue, but more an electric blue than any more common colour. They also lacked pupils.

“Ah, well… In for a farthing, in for a quid…” she sighed to herself. The massive book in front of her seemed older than any book she had ever seen, in this life or her last, and was, to her admittedly amateur eyes, better-maintained than the vast majority of first edition releases a fraction of its age. Laid out beside it was a quill made from a feather the likes of which she had never seen. Depending on the light, it seemed to contain every colour she could conceive of, and a few that called her sanity into question to look upon them, for these hues were so vastly different from any earthly shade designed to be perceived by mortal eyes. She tore her fascinated gaze away from the multihued quill, picked it up by the metal nub, sharpened to a fine, almost needle-like point, and pricked her finger on it. The pain was momentary, and she put her finger in her mouth after she had gotten blood onto the quill with a muttered curse; the quill, however, stood to attention and began to fly across to the book.

The volume opened, and thousands of pages with more names than she cared to count flew by, resting finally upon a page somewhere in the middle of the massive book. There, at the top of the blank page, it inscribed a name.

Unfortunately for her, it was a name written in characters she could not read.

“Katsumi of the Fallen Rain…” read Maerwhentt. “Y’know, I had a feeling it would be aught like that. You drahn and your flowery naming conventions… It’s like it’s too much to ask for you to have a given and dynastic name like  _ normal  _ people. Here. Take your loan. It’s to be paid back at five percent interest, so make certain to pay it back quickly, or risk owing more than you can ever repay.”

Reeling from the fact that she could now put a name to herself, Katsumi remarked, “Sounds more than a little predatory. Dare I ask what happens if I fail to pay it back?”

Maerwhentt looked at her suspiciously. “You wouldn’t be the first of your kind to take a generous loan like that and go running. But know that you  _ don’t  _ want to know what our collection methods are like. Let’s just say debtors to the guild are common targets for less scrupulous adventuring companies.”

“...I see,” replied Katsumi at length. “You seem hostile…”

“Hmph. I would think that someone of your  _ racial persuasion  _ would be used to people being short with you. And rightly so. Thieves, liars, and cheats, the lot of you, without a single redeeming quality to your names save for how high brothels will pay for your kind,” said Maerwhentt. “Be grateful, drahn. Any self-respecting Host at any other city would turn you out on your posterior without a gil to your name. To be fair, it’s only because my bleeding-heart older sister sent you to me that you’re even getting  _ this  _ much. Here. A dispatch of one hundred gil to your name. You’ll probably cheat and steal the rest of what you need—I swear, if the Guild charter didn’t explicitly state our neutrality, I’d call the guards on you without a second thought. Would probably make the streets safer, anyhow.”

The dwarf took a pouch from beneath the counter and threw it directly into Katsumi’s chest. She caught it deftly, and, without inflection, said “Thanks.”

Maerwhentt waved her off. “Go on. Get. You’re making the other adventurers nervous. And take your Parameter with you!”

“Parameter?” asked Katsumi.

In response, Maerwhentt grumbled, slipped off his stool, and went over to the shelves that lined the wall on her right in the hallway behind the desk that led to the kitchens. From the shelf he pulled a scroll, and then went right back to the desk, climbing once more onto the stool and throwing the sealed scroll at her. “It’s on  _ you  _ to keep it safe. Know that if you lose it, gaining another one is going to cost you far more than you’re ever likely to be able to afford!”

Katsumi, looking around and seeing that a scene was being made—indeed, every eye in the inn was upon her, and her altercation with the dwarf Host—decided that discretion was the better part of valour; thus, she bowed and made to exit.

Closing the door behind her, she sat down on the step and blew one of her bangs out of her face. The scroll, which was apparently called her Parameter, hung loosely in her hand, the small pouch of one hundred gil—which she could tell wasn’t going to last her very long—held in her other as she pondered her options. She obviously wasn’t welcome in the Guild due to her race, so  _ that  _ lead would be of no use to her. 

So deep in thought was she that she was genuinely shocked when a small child dashed past her, snatching her gil pouch out of her hand. Panicking, she scrambled to her feet, stumbling indecorously down the stairs, and then sprinted at full tilt after the child.

Thankfully, the child was either on his last legs after a full day of larceny, or starving and new at this—perhaps both—and she could tell because she was easily able to keep pace with him into the Artisans’ District. Taking the boy down with a flying tackle, the both of them collapsed to the ground.

“You know, kid, a wise woman once said, ‘Never steal from somebody you can’t outrun.’ I’m starting to think she was more right than I thought,” said she. “Now…about my gil…”

The child she was talking to was made of wood.

She’d been had.

“Well, shit…” she sighed. “Back to Square One. Actually, no, back to Square  _ Negative _ One! Because at least at Square One, I wasn’t in debt  _ on top of  _ being penniless! And weaponless, and armourless, and potentially  _ every other kind of ‘less’! _ ”

She stood from the wood doll and kicked it. “Can’t imagine this is worth much, but I should be able to get a few…”

The doll exploded into a shower of quickly-dissipating blue sparks.

“Oh,  _ fuck you!  _ In what universe is that fair?!” She sighed. “This one, apparently… The fuck am I going to do now…”

_ How should I know? Pick a direction and start walking. _

Frey’s admonition came rushing back to her in that very moment, and she sighed as she followed that advice, letting her feet lead the way.

Her footfalls led her towards the ringing sound of hammer-on-anvil, and the smell of charcoal-smoke along with the foul tang of iron. Before long, she stood outside of a building with a sign that showed a pair of crossed blades. Prior knowledge of RPGs combined with common sense to inform her that this was likely a weaponsmith’s shop, one with a forge in the back of it. 

On some strange impulse, like a whisper in her ear that echoed into the depths of her mind, Katsumi opened the door and walked in. 

The shop’s interior was silent save for the constant ringing of steel being flattened between two slabs of iron—the hammer and anvil. There was no line of conversation between the master weaponsmith and the apprentice he had occupying the storefront, which was itself quite strange. Add to that the fact that the whispers were continuing and growing louder in her mind, and she had to dedicate some actual effort to blocking them out.

“I’m sorry, but we don’t arm  _ your kind _ here,” spat the apprentice, sounding distinctly un-sorry. 

Katsumi studied him for a moment. He was young, maybe hovering somewhere around fifteen years of age, and his skin was dark and stained with soot. Accordingly, his hair was black, and his eyes were a light brown. He was, while not musclebound, clearly well-built from years of working the forge—she recalled that she had once read that children in preindustrial societies began their apprenticeships at nine, if they were lucky, and continued them until they were twenty-one. This put him in just about the dead centre of his apprenticeship—too far in to back out, but too far from the end to actually believe it to be in sight. When she registered his words, she sighed. “Yeah, I’ve been getting a lot of that lately…”

“Did you not hear me?! Get out before I call the guard!” cried the young, plain-faced adolescent, gesturing to the door wildly. 

The sound of metal pounding on metal halted with a hiss of quenching steel. “ _ Boy! _ ”

“Oh,  _ now  _ you’ve gone and done it. You’ve disrupted the master’s concentration! You’d have been gone when I told you to leave in the first place if you knew what was good for you!” hissed the apprentice.

The man who walked out from the back was tall and broad—a giant, really—with pale green skin and a build altogether too large to be entirely human. His eyes glinted in the low light like embers, and his balding pate was host to a head of hair that was long, iron-grey and wiry, complete with a beard that would put a dwarf to shame—not Maerwhentt, of course, but other dwarves, such as his elder sister. He wore a pair of loose-fitting burlap trousers and covered his bare, barrel-chest with a thick leather apron, his hands covered in thick mittens of the same material. The man looked altogether how she might have imagined Hephaestus would.

“What have I told you, boy, about throwing out paying customers?” asked the weaponsmith patiently, and the aura he exuded was so overpowering that if it was a physical force, she wagered she’d have been brought to her knees already by the sheer weight of it.

“But master! She’s a  _ drahn! _ ” protested the apprentice.

“I don’t care if she’s a bloody  _ beastman! _ ” roared the weaponsmith. “I took  _ you  _ on, didn’t I?!  _ Despite _ your misbegotten father!”

The apprentice cowered as the old weaponsmith turned to her. “Now, miss, how can I help you?”

“Well…it’s a long story. I suppose the pertinent part started when I left the Guild of Adventurers and immediately had my hundred gil loan stolen from me…” began Katsumi.

“Hah! A likely story!” cried the apprentice accusatorily. 

“Boy!” roared the weaponsmith. “Get back there and do something productive before I throw you out of my shop and tell my daughter you’ve failed your apprenticeship!”

The apprentice sighed. “Yes, grandfather.”

“Now,” said the weaponsmith, crossing his massive tree-trunk arms as he leaned back into the stone wall behind him, while the boy walked into the back of the shop. “I’m sorry for your loss, but what does this have to do with me?”

“Nothing yet,” said Katsumi. “Look, I would hate to be a bother, but I need gil. I was hoping that you would allow me to work for it.”

The old weaponsmith’s singed eyebrows raised. “Foreigner to these lands? Just off the boat?”

“The boat was wrecked and I wound up on a beach a couple of hours from here, but by and large, yes,” said Katsumi, puzzled.

“I could tell,” said the old weaponsmith. “No one from around here would approach my shop without a sponsor and a sack full of gil. Apprenticeships are  _ expensive  _ as well as time-consuming. Every tool you break, every material you waste, comes directly out of  _ my  _ funds. And I’ve got dues to pay to the Guild of Artisans on top of rent to pay for the land, the tithe for the bloody misbegotten knights,  _ and  _ the price of food. I’m sorry, but the apprentice I have already is enough of a strain on my limited finances. I can’t take you on as one. Not to mention, the Guild of Adventurers is not like to wait for you to start making wages…”

“Then my situation is untenable…” Katsumi sighed. She nodded and bowed. “I apologise for wasting your time.”

She turned around and walked towards the door, biting her own lip as tears filled her eyes, not concerning her situation—though that was so hopeless it would be worthy of tears—but rather, tears of pain brought on by the whispers in her ear and thus in her mind building up to an agonising crescendo.

“Where are you going?” asked the large, faintly green man. “I said that I couldn’t take you on as an apprentice. I never said I couldn’t help you. The whispers. You hear them, don’t you? Hear them slowly driving you mad…”

She whirled around. “How…?!”

The man gave a deep belly laugh. “You don’t think I’m so wet behind the ears that I wouldn’t recognise one of your kind when they appeared before me?”

Somehow, Katsumi didn’t think he was talking about her race. “‘My kind’?”

“Fought beside you people in the last Great War, you know,” he said fondly. “Saved my life, you lot did. The dark knights have sacrificed much for this land and all who live in it.”

“Justice demands no less,” she said reflexively.

“Yeah, that’s what  _ they  _ would have said, too,” said the old weaponsmith with a look of intense nostalgia in his eyes. “I can tell you’re new at this. Unfortunately, you’re likely the last of your kind. And even if you aren’t, I can guarantee there is but a scant handful of you left. I would be surprised if there was another, and I would be shocked for there to be three of you, including you, that remain in the world. Four, and I’d  _ know  _ I was dreaming. Add to that the fact that you’re a drahn—quite likely the most feared and despised race on the continent after a galdjent like me—and the road ahead of you is sure to be long, difficult, and worst of all, solitary. I don’t envy you, last of the dark knights—yours is a duty that few in their right minds  _ would _ —and you don’t even seem to have been made aware of it.”

The weaponsmith looked her up and down with a critical eye. “Come with me. There’s something I’d like to see about.”

With that, the massive man—a galdjent, or so he had identified himself—pushed off of the wall behind him and walked into the bowels of his shop. Katsumi scrambled after him, which was difficult enough; one of his strides counted for four of hers, and she was  _ leggy _ as far as proportions went. She still managed to keep pace, just barely, as they passed by a gawking apprentice, who, at a look from his master, swiftly returned to his work, and they descended into the cellar of the shop.

One side of the cellar was entirely dominated by a cylinder made from stone blocks that the room could not even encapsulate. Katsumi noted the slight heat coming from the reinforced stone and figured that that was where the forge was located. On the other side of the cellar, there were blades, spears, axes, and more laying against the far wall. The galdjent waved Katsumi over, and she followed him as he came to the wall in question. Using his massive hands, he shifted the mound of weapons to either side of him, and underneath it all there was a long, low case on the ground, made of thick black iron, inscribed with runes, and buckled and chained with a comical amount of locks all over its surface. The man knelt before it, pulled off one of his oversized mitts, and held his hand out over the central lock, whispering a few words that Katsumi could barely hear let alone make out or parse, though the unfamiliar sounds told her that she wouldn’t recognise the language of the words even if she could make out and parse them. 

The box began to shake, slightly at first, like a tremor, but quickly it began to shake ever more violently as he continued incanting, like there was something  _ alive  _ in there, something desperate to awaken from a nightmare that seemed without end. Finally, the smith stepped away, the lock clicked, and the chains, once taut, slackened.

The shaking became genuinely violent, but Katsumi felt an urging at the back of her head to comfort what was emerging—a child, insisted her mind, lighting up the part of her brain that contained her maternal instincts like a Tanabata festival; she walked towards the case slowly, the smith making no move to stop her, and she knelt before the case. She placed her hand on it, and almost as though it sensed her proximity, it slowly quieted.

Then the lid popped open with a hiss.

Slipping her slender fingers underneath the edge of the lid, she began to slowly, gently push the lid up and back, so as not to terrify the poor thing any further. When she saw inside, she was so puzzled she hesitated for a moment, before her instincts kicked back in. She reached inside the velvet-cushioned container and lifted out a sword. It was unlike any blade she had ever seen before. 

What she  _ expected  _ had been a massive, hulking block of steel, barely able to support its own weight, let alone be swung with any degree of deftness.

What she  _ got  _ was a Western blade that looked to be  _ at least  _ one and a half metres in length, making the weapon longer than she was tall. It was curved, with a single edge, and slender in its construction. The hilt was cruciform and featured a two-handed grip—as though she had a choice if she wanted to wield this magnificent weapon—with a nail-like protrusion, but infinitely more elegant, coming out of the right side of the guard, which she guessed was there to protect her hands. It was…

“ _ Perfection, _ ” she breathed.

“It’s called a kriegsmesser,” supplied the smith. “Some dark knights preferred massive swords that could barely be called that. Hulking, brutish weapons that despite their undeniably sharp edges, broke more bones than skin. Others prefer nimbler blades. That weapon is my finest work.”

“Then…why are you giving it to me?”

“Because in my anger and grief, I cursed it so that only a dark knight could wield it,” he sighed. “It was commissioned for a dark knight I fell in love with during the War. It was…an unrequited love. Her beloved was sent far to the front—in those days, so soon after the end of the centuries-long Inquisition, dark knights were even more feared and mistrusted, by an order of magnitude, no less, than the drahn are these days, and for better reason…though not by much. He fell there, far away from her, and so bereaved was she by his death that she committed suicide. With her died her unborn son.

“Nearly mad with loss and sorrow, I returned to the forges to find the designs for the kriegsmesser there, waiting for me to build it, to give it life as she had failed to do for her child. As a dark knight, she was left to rot. It was thought that burying a dark knight with the appropriate rites would taint the land, you see. So I took her body and extracted, with the help of an alchemist, her blood. Her bloodless body I buried in accordance with the traditions of my homeland, since hers would not honour the sacrifice of one of their own. It was that blood I used to quench the white-hot metal, and thus, inscribed into the blade are a litany of curses, and that black sacrament infinitely darker than the greatest and most malevolent curse.

“Over time, I came to hate the blade, and tried to pass it off to nobles and landed knights when they asked for my finest work. Invariably, they died horrifying and gruesome deaths. The blade was soon acknowledged as a cursed weapon, and I, the one who forged it. Only because of my ‘exemplary’ service during the War was I spared the headsman’s axe.

“It’s been a century since then. All of my companions have since died. Even the youngest of them is two decades in the grave. It is the hatred in my heart that keeps me alive—that, and this blade. It draws my life out like butter scraped over too much bread, extending my lifespan to unnatural lengths. I should have long since embarked onto the Undiscovered Country by now—I was fifty when the Great War began, and my race scarce lives to seventy. I am twice as old as the next-eldest galdjent in existence. Some call me venerable; those wiser than they call me cursed. And yet, the fires of hatred I feel for that blade have peaked, then smouldered and guttered out, and the last ember went dark ten years ago. Now I just feel…empty. Hollow. I gave all that I am to that blade, and what is left is bestial—an old man well past his time limping on through the ages.

“And yet, now that I look upon you, I am glad. Perhaps for the first time since she died and was forsaken by the land and the people she fought to protect. I am glad that I have lived for this long. So I must express my gratitude to you that I have lived to see another take up the dark sword.” The galdjent began to laugh, and his laughter became choked with sobs. His eyes, too old and accustomed to misery to produce a single tear any longer, squeezed themselves shut. “Thank you. Thank you, bearer of the dark blade. Now, I may finally rest.”

“Wait! How can I repay you for this?!” she cried.

“You have given me payment enough by granting me the absolution I have sought for decades. But if you must find a way to repay me—please, finish the job. Few things are worse than having to die alone and forgotten at the bottom of a long-abandoned cellar, stocked with a masterpiece drowned in all the failures I’ve forged since then.”

Katsumi sighed. “If you’re certain that’s what you desire.”

“It has been  _ all  _ I desired for well over half a century now,” he replied. He pointed to a place slightly left of centre on his great barrel chest. “Here is my heart. Pierce it with your dark sword, that the blade might truly awaken in your hands.”

Taking a deep breath in, she took a deep stance, both hands on the hilt with her elbow held level to support the length of the blade. With an exhale, she drove forth and pierced the heart of the weaponsmith. He spasmed, as though a jolt had just gone through his body, and then blood began to dribble, thick and viscous, from his mouth. “My name is Zeid. And I thank you…dark knight…”

“Rest in peace, Zeid,” replied Katsumi, stepping back and drawing the blade out and to the side in a wide arc.

The weaponsmith, Zeid, collapsed to his knees, and his skin began to turn grey until it was abundantly clear he was petrifying. Then the stone of his form dissipated into a nonexistent wind, the dust resulting of that disintegration flowing away in an unfelt gale that sounded like a sigh of relief. 

Katsumi watched until the last of the dust disappeared, and picked up the scabbard from the case, sheathing the blade and placing the whole ensemble onto her back, buckling the scabbard’s leather straps across her chest. Then she ascended the steps.

As she walked up the stairs, the apprentice ran past her down them, and by the time he ascended the steps and called for the guards, insisting that a drahn thief had murdered his master, Katsumi was long gone. And in her wake she left a forge whose fire had long-since gone ashen-cold, a hearth layered with over a half-century’s worth of dust, and a dilapidated edifice that had neither been attended to nor occupied for many years by any objective measurement. 

When the guards finally came, that was what they saw—a young man raving almost incoherently about duplicitous drahn, a murder without a body, and a storefront that, by all written accounts, had been empty for seven decades.

All that remained of Zeid or his shop for the past seventy years…was memory.

-

Katsumi headed for the gates of the city, the gates to the wilderness where, she figured, there would be monsters and other enemies. Having reached the conclusion that this world was somehow inspired by an RPG, though she couldn’t recall which franchise—her memories of her previous life were still very,  _ very  _ vague and indistinct—she decided that her best course of action would be to grow familiar with the weapon that had almost literally just fallen into her lap. And of course, the best way to accomplish  _ that  _ would be with an RPG staple:

_ Grinding. _

A few exchanged words with a guard at the gate, and she was out into the inland fields, plagued by roving bands of monsters. Anticipating the difficulty of drawing her kriegsmesser from her back—which, she knew, was discovered to be grossly overstated in her time—she did exactly that, so as to not have to figure out the ergonomics of it in battle. Surprisingly, the sword came smoothly out of the scabbard, and thus did she advance, sword drawn, upon the first monster she saw.

“Alright, it’s clearly a hare of some kind. With a few  _ marked  _ exceptions, hares are usually first-level enemies, especially this close to the gate,” she muttered to herself. She glanced around the fields, seeing a number of different enemies, and counted them off aloud. “Hares, squirrels, and worms. All first level enemies, until they’re  _ not.  _ Let’s hope that this is the former case, for my own sake…”

With that, she silently ran up to the creature, a hare, and slashed at it.

It leapt and dodged nimbly back. 

With a sigh, she took her stance, low to the ground, with her blade balanced somewhat on her elbow, and prepared to settle in for a long, gruelling experience of a fight.

That supposition was quickly dashed when, instead of evading and generally being a hare, it leapt up and started a barrage of kicks. Her instincts  _ shrieked  _ at her, telling her that such an attack would absolutely  _ drop  _ her as she currently was. Hurriedly, she rolled to the side, and with the momentum of that motion, she slashed diagonally up at it while it was caught in the middle of attempting to kick at where she had just been standing. The yielding of flesh to the blade of the kriegsmesser was sweet, and the blood that erupted from the small body and the cry of anguish the small animal gave out was even more pleasing.

Immediately, her instincts screamed at her again, and, twisting and pivoting into a one hundred eighty degree turn, she brought her blade along with her, cutting through another hare that came up behind her. Then, as  _ that  _ one died, she looked around her and saw maybe a dozen hares closing in rapidly on her position. 

The hopping of a small woodland creature had never before seemed so ominous.

“I suppose entering combat with one of them aggroed the rest of them to my position… _ Wonderful… _ ”

Now, if this were an anime, she’d drop her guard, stomp her foot, and complain about most RPGs having no aggro radius for low-level enemies in starting areas,  _ specifically  _ so that occasions like this did not arise. But as this was  _ not _ an anime, she ruthlessly suppressed that impulse, and stayed on guard as she let out a small affirmative grunt and charged headlong into the group of enemies hopping towards her, kriegsmesser swinging.

She had begun in the midmorning hours. By evening, when she trudged back into the city gates, feeling as though she was on her last legs, covered in cuts, gnaw marks, and bruises from attacks she failed to parry or evade, she had killed perhaps fifty of the woodland animals. Their small, rent and broken bodies were strewn haphazardly across the wooded field. She  _ would  _ have moved onto larger prey, were it not evening, and were she not in such a dire state; those two factors combined and conspired to make her go back into the city.  _ Thankfully,  _ she had made some gil—or rather, what she  _ presumed  _ to be gil, in any case—from the unmitigated slaughter of hares, which was fortunate, to say the least, but perplexed her greatly. For example, she could not for the life of her understand just  _ how  _ that much gil ended up spread between a few hares’ stomachs. 

The currency itself was made up of small golden coins stamped with a large bird on one side and a tree on the other. The symbolism meant  _ something,  _ she was certain, but she was _ way  _ too new to this world to even  _ begin  _ to hazard a guess. So instead, she had pocketed the coins and moved on, leaving questions concerning the havoc such objects must have played on the hares’ digestive systems for another day.

Her kriegsmesser was strapped to her back once again as she strode through Maelnaulde, and she could imagine she looked even worse then than she had that morning, with how much blood and viscera even now clung to her small frame, and how much more torn and tattered her clothes were than they had been when she washed up the previous day. All the same, she followed the sounds of drinking and carousing past the Guild of Adventurers, past most of the city, through areas that looked increasingly distressed, going from merely rough around the edges to impoverished to absolutely destitute. Nestled away in this area of absolute, crushing pennilessness rested a small, ramshackle tavern. Over the door was a sign, and on that sign was a faded, chipped painting that crudely depicted a naked woman with a tankard in either hand, clearly inebriated. The lettering spelled out the words, ‘The Drunken Whore - Bordello, Tavern and Inn.’ “Well, seems as good a place to stay as any, and a sight better than most, at the very least. That is, if the Guild is like the majority of establishments… At any rate, onward we go…”

Blasting the door wide open, she strode into the building, doing her best to seem like she belonged there. She didn’t know that she had a Plan C in case she was thrown out of  _ this  _ establishment on the basis of her race, anyways. She didn’t know the city well enough to even  _ have  _ a coherent Plan C.

Plan B, as it turned out, lasted  _ about  _ as long as it took for her to realise that the overwhelming majority of the clientele were men. Rough, rugged men. The urge to leave as quickly as she could spiked inside of her, but the knowledge that she had nowhere else to go left her unable to act on that impulse. So instead, she walked up to the bar and flagged the proprietor over. “How much for a room, my good ser?”

The man was of middling height and beautiful, but still, the sight of him shocked her. His flesh was pale as driven snow, his long hair was white as bone, and his eyes were a more vibrant red than even the shades of blood she had seen flying through the air from the bodies of attacking hares. He looked her up and down. “Let me guess. New adventurer, got turned away from the Guild on account of you being a drahn?”

“Y-yes, how did you…?”

The man snorted. “To be so green you must piss grass, and then to be so green  _ on top of that  _ that you don’t even know that you radiate naivete like an aura. Truly, youth and innocence are wasted on the young and innocent.”

“I’m hardly an innocent,” she protested.

He scoffed. “Take a look around you, girl. These men are mercenaries, assassins, trained killers. The dregs of Maelnaulde’s society that are tolerated when needed and then left with  _ this  _ place as their only recourse when they’re not. These men have had to bury friends. A few have loved ones who  _ work  _ here because some noble thought they looked like a fun romp and are now overwhelmingly considered damaged goods.

“You’re not in some pretty, gilded city, girl. You’re in the Rouge. A place for whores, bastards, and broken men to come to live out their lives in misery and die pointlessly. This place, the Drunken Whore, exists so that they can do that in peace. So if you’re here to  _ slum it _ with lower life forms, I must kindly insist that you  _ get the fuck out. _ ”

“Tandem! Don’t be so hard on the poor girl! Can’t you see she’s got nowhere else to go?” called a woman’s voice. It was soft and sultry, husky, even, but with a wicked edge of bitterness to it. From some distance behind the bar came the owner of that voice—a woman, tall and statuesque, but more in how she carried herself than in her build. Her body was covered in a low-cut, finely-crafted yukata that was ornamented and embellished almost to the point of gaudiness, but without crossing that threshold. Her skin was pale like marble, but still a far more natural shade than the man’s bloodless flesh. Her eyes were a piercing jade hue, and her long, silky black hair cascaded down her back and over her shoulders. She lifted a single fine brow as she scrutinised Katsumi, looking her up and down with a gaze that was both far more appraising and calculating than Tandem’s had been. “Hmm. Yes, you’ve got potential. You’ll do.”

Tandem sighed and threw up his hands as he walked away, and Katsumi looked between the albino and his…employer? Paramour? Wife? She wasn’t quite sure how to characterise the relationship that so clearly existed between the two that one would have to be blind to not see it, to not see that  _ something  _ was going on there. Her eyes shifted rapidly between man and woman, and eventually she couldn’t help but ask, “Am I missing something here?”

“Several things, I’d imagine, but don’t worry your pretty head about that,” said the woman. Walking around the end of the bar, she circled Katsumi, and faint, strangely familiar fumes of kizami smoke wafted up into her nostrils. It smelled mostly of tobacco, with a thin undercurrent of amphetamines interlaced throughout, and it made her nose, apparently quite sensitive in her new life, sneeze. “Yes, I think you’ll do quite nicely. You’ll need a bath, of course, and some new clothes—but with a bit of grooming and a few days of training, you’d be an excellent fit for our little family.”

“She’s talking about you working as a whore, if that’s not immediately apparent,” called Tandem. “I know you greenhorns are usually quite oblivious on that score.”

“Tandem!” she chastised the man, before turning towards Katsumi. “Nothing so crass, I assure you. Certainly, our girls  _ do  _ service the men here, but it is a  _ privilege  _ for our patrons, not a right. My husband over there may not look the part, but he is quite adept at forcing those few patrons who try to take more than what is for sale out and onto the streets for the foreseeable future—or really ever, come to think of it.

“You’ll be well-treated—fed, clothed, and given a fair wage. I daresay this is more a halfway house for girls…well…for girls like  _ you,  _ I suppose—desperate and with nowhere else to go, for one reason or another—than it is a brothel,” said the woman. “You’ll see a chirurgeon regularly and be expected to take moon tea to protect yourself. The men are usually careful, but accidents  _ do  _ happen.

“The rules are few, but they  _ are  _ strict. There will be no stealing—and no, I don’t say that because of your race, I say that because I say that to  _ every  _ new girl—no  _ lying,  _ no hoarding, and as a general matter, nothing that could stoke conflict between you and the other girls. Any conflicts that  _ do  _ arise, I shall  _ personally  _ resolve _ — _ and my word is  _ final. _ We are a family here—and very often it is us against the world. Thus it is imperative that we are able to present a united front in the face of adversity. Understood?”

_ Is this where my life has come to? Turning tricks between the sheets to survive? Well, I suppose it’s probably easier than being a geisha, or trying to make it out there on my own, for that matter, if today has taught me anything,  _ she thought to herself. “Yes. I understand.”

“Excellent!” said the woman, clapping her slender, elegant hands together, and in her grasp, Katsumi noted, was a collapsed paper fan. “Well then. My name is Madam Tsuyu. Welcome, little dragon, to the family. I’m certain you’ll fit right in.” 


	3. Welcome to the Family

The water of the bath, brought to a near-scald, was the kiss of heaven on her pale skin. Katsumi sank into the scented pool with a loud, somewhat embarrassing, moan of relief. The bath was laden with perfumes and layered in rose petals; Katsumi had no idea how expensive this all must have been, but she was doing her best to take Madam Tsuyu at her word when she said that this was all free of charge. Katsumi was fine with working here, more or less, but she knew she didn’t appreciate the idea of financial entrapment, and couldn’t begin to imagine how she would react should that abhorrent idea become the reality of her situation.

However, since she had been rather unceremoniously dumped into this world, she had begun to learn to trust her instincts—and as nothing was screaming at her that Madam Tsuyu wished her ill, she did her best to bury her cognitive misgivings. After all, the madam was right; it wasn’t as though Katsumi had much in the way of other options.

_ Speak of the Devil…  _

The door to the bath opened, and in walked Madam Tsuyu herself. Her yukata abandoned for a haori that was open down the front, she knelt down behind Katsumi and procured bottles of oils from beside the girl. She had no idea what the madam was actually selecting, but as the madam poured some of the contents into her hands and replaced the bottles where they had been, the girl braced herself for whatever might come.

All the same, she yipped when the madam began to run her fingers through her hair. Her tangled, knotted, two-days-crusted-over-with-seawater hair. The older woman’s slender digits were as gentle as they could conceivably be, given the nature of the task they were about, but they were also firm enough to accomplish that task in a reasonable amount of time.

“Forgive me, child, but I don’t believe I remembered to ask your name,” said Madam Tsuyu, her voice gentle and soothing, working like a firm pair of hands massaging the tension out of the girl’s soul.

“Katsumi…of the Fallen Rain,” replied Katsumi.

“Hmm. Well, allow me to be the first to tell you that you have beautiful hair, Katsumi,” remarked the madam, combing her oiled fingers through the girl’s raven locks. “I’ve been thinking on how to fit you into our family. Kagura, for example, prefers her clients to be rough with her. Kyomi is…well, she knows what her clients like.  _ You,  _ however… You seem so delicate. Like a doll, almost.”

Katsumi’s hackles raised, and Madam Tsuyu slapped her shoulder. “Hush, girl. I meant nothing by it. Merely an idle observation.”

Katsumi relaxed again, and the older woman began to speak once more in that same soothing tone. “I think it would be ill-advised, not to mention cruel, to throw you to the wolves. No, I believe I’ll have you answer a wonder of mine. Long ago, I was an adventurer myself. Can you imagine? I was a dancer, actually. A dervish of sorts, you might say. But when I was young, I came to my mother, a powerful and famous adventurer in her own right, and told her I wanted to journey to the local crystal shrine, to become an adventurer so as to make the world a better, kinder place. My mother scoffed at me, and I’ll never forget what she said. ‘You want to make the world a kinder place, girl? Become a whore.’

“I hated her for that. A part of me still does. But sometimes, as I get older, and the faces of the people I’ve killed over the course of my adventuring career begin to blend together, becoming muddled and indistinct, I wonder if she was right.” Madam Tsuyu chuckled, but it was a bitter, mirthless sound, and it brought no solace. “I have two daughters now. Ástríðr and Sonja. Twins, no less. They were born shortly after my husband and I opened this establishment. Back then, we had a different selection of women than we do these days—they have all since either died or gone their separate ways. But though they were born into this life, I could tell that my children wished for more. And so I allowed them to take Kyomi and Kagura to the crystal shrine by the shore with them, so that all four of them could be assigned their adventuring classes.

“I would like for you to spend some time here. See if it will bring you peace.”

“Has it for you?” Katsumi couldn’t help but ask.

“To a point,” Madam Tsuyu replied. “And watching my daughters grow into fine young women has made up the balance of the remainder.

“There is a reason, to return to the point, that this place is not wealthier or as externally well-maintained as other such establishments. And that is that we do not cater to nobles and lordlings who wish to feel powerful, especially not by mistreating our girls. Like I said, we’re a family here. This is not a place of recreation—it is a place of healing. While some of the greener clientele  _ do  _ deal with the usual troubles, such as low self-worth, the vast majority come here, not for carnal relations, necessarily, but rather to forget about the world outside, which has caused them so much pain, and to which they, in turn, have caused much pain. They desire, first and foremost, a reprieve from the endless, vicious cycle that persists in the outside world even now. And I think the best way you could provide that is not with your body, but with your mind and skills.

“Even now, I can sense a great darkness swirling within you, like a storm-cloud hanging above your brow. I believe that that darkness, judiciously applied, can help heal these men’s broken souls. That is, if you have but the will to learn. Something tells me, however, that that sword you brought in, carried on your back—it calls to you. Something has been done to you, my girl. I sincerely doubt you’ll ever be truly whole ever again—if you ever were to begin with. Which, of course, some aren’t.” Madam Tsuyu then brought up a bucket filled with water and upended it over her head. The piping liquid cascaded down her locks, making her skin tingle, but not singe, and she wondered, not for the first time since this bath began, how she could stand such a temperature. It wasn’t as though she was numb to it, no—she knew perfectly well what the  _ actual _ temperature was—but rather, she could withstand it better than she could have when she was human, to the point where the infernal water temperature was actually  _ comfortable  _ to her perception. She chalked it up to a racial trait and then left it at that. “So then. How came you to own that sword?”

“A weaponsmith gifted it to me,” replied Katsumi.

“Ah. Perhaps he can provide weapons to the rest of the family…”

“He can’t,” said Katsumi. “He’s dead. I killed him.”

Madam Tsuyu stilled. “I feel like there’s a story to that…”

“And what would that change?” Katsumi asked, beginning to fold in on herself. “Stories don’t bring back the dead. Excuses don’t reverse the deed that was done. He’s dead. I killed him. Whatever my reasons, whatever his, that fact remains.”

“And do you regret it?” asked Madam Tsuyu softly.

“...Should I?” asked Katsumi in response.

To that, Madam Tsuyu had no reply.

-

The material of the robe Madam Tsuyu had left Katsumi was at once both rich and sheer. It felt like gossamer on her skin—a single thread of gossamer would have, in the ordinary course, felt disconcerting on the grounds that it was a sign of the proximity of a spider, but an entire robe made from woven-together bolts of it felt more luxurious than any fabric she could remember through her muddled recollections. She nestled in it and nuzzled the softness of the textile until there was a knock on the bathroom door. “Are you decent?”

The voice was unfamiliar, but recognizably female. “Would it matter if I wasn’t?”

A sigh came from the other side of the door before it burst open. “New whores always thinking they’re clever with that same tired line…”

Katsumi’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, have I offended?”

“Offence implies I care,” said the other woman. She walked in, and Katsumi was immediately lost in the other woman’s brilliant green eyes. She found her senses again when the other woman scoffed. “Two weeks, tops.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Is that all you have to offer? Lame jokes and empty apologies?” the other woman returned. “Perhaps I was too generous. Ten days.”

“I’m sorry, it seems we got off on the wrong foot. I’m…”

“Look, whore, we’re not friends, and we’re not going to  _ be  _ friends. Make it past ten days, and I  _ might _ invest the effort to learn your name. Until then, you’re just another set of holes. A dime a dozen.” The other woman turned around, her silver hair flowing down her back and her broad shoulders. “My name’s Ástríðr. Mix me up with my sister, Sonja, and you’ll make the discovery of why my nickname in other brothels is ‘the Ravager.’ And I promise you, you won’t enjoy it.  _ Don’t  _ try me on that—sturdier, more experienced whores than you have attempted that feat and failed. Sometimes fatally.”

“I thought…”

“What, you thought my mother’s aegis would protect you, slut?” supplied Ástríðr with a cocked brow. She then strode over to Katsumi, her tall frame imposing and her powerfully muscled legs drawing her closer to the girl faster than she had expected. Before Katsumi could react, Ástríðr had a handful of hair in her fist, and jerked the drahn’s head backwards. “Let me make your situation  _ abundantly  _ clear. You’re a curio. A charity case. Someone my mother brought in on a fucking  _ whim.  _ Everyone else here? They’ve struggled and scraped every day of their lives to get here, and worked their asses off to get the ability to go to that crystal. Some wannabe adventurer moonlighting as a whore will  _ never  _ be one of us. Your  _ best case  _ scenario is that I see enough of a work ethic in you to make you my relief slut until you  _ break. _ So adjust those expectations of yours accordingly,  _ bitch.  _ I’ve chewed up and spit out sluts  _ leagues  _ better than you. Understood?”

Katsumi glared balefully at Ástríðr. The older woman slapped her across the face, nearly drawing blood. Katsumi continued to glare, and Ástríðr smirked. “Next hit, teeth go flying. You’d better nod that pretty little head of yours if you know what’s good for you. So I’ll give you one more shot.  _ Do you understand? _ ”

Katsumi nodded, but her glare did not abate. 

“Excellent,” said Ástríðr, releasing Katsumi’s hair and letting her head fall forward. She then patted Katsumi’s cheek. “Don’t worry too much. When I’m done with ya, I’ll find a nice ditch to throw you in so that you can find a brothel more suited to low-class, low-effort bitches like you. Maybe I’ll even put a bastard in you to remember me by. Wouldn’t that be nice? Someone to keep a whore like you company, since, you know, no one will  _ really _ ever want you. Damaged goods and all.”

Katsumi could barely contain the fury roiling in her chest, the Darkside struggling against its bonds to be free, but beneath that anger, beneath the desire to show this monstrous woman just who she was, she couldn’t help but acknowledge that Ástríðr was quite likely the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. The sneer highlighted her elegant cheekbones, and her body was powerful as well as curvaceous, with breasts that demanded her gaze drift to them and stay affixed there, so large and gravity-defying were they, an abdomen that looked as though one could strike flint on it and get sparks, and a pair of hips that were proportional to her broad shoulders, ending with the aforementioned powerful musculature of her long legs and arms. Dressed as she was in a pair of leggings and a cropped shirt, her outfit left little to the imagination, and indeed accentuated a great deal of her body. The one perplexing thing about her was the large codpiece she wore, but Katsumi assumed she  _ really  _ didn’t want to know what was slumbering underneath it.

Ástríðr caught her eyes wandering, and smirked, running her hands down her admittedly quite impressive body. “Don’t flatter yourself, slut. The closest you’ll ever get to _ this  _ is if I find you worth the trouble of breaking, which isn’t remotely likely. Now! Follow me. Mother wants me to show you around.”

With that, Ástríðr retreated from Katsumi and began to walk out the door. She stopped at the threshold, and huffed in irritation. Katsumi was still smouldering with fury and hearing everything as though from a distance when the woman came stalking back into the bathroom, grabbing a handful of hair again and dragging Katsumi painfully out of the chamber. With a mighty heave once at the threshold, she threw Katsumi into the hall, where she went tumbling to a stop at the far wall, crashing into it with a significant thud. “Look, slut, if you’re gonna be sitting there all gobsmacked, you’re not going to be of use to anyone—not the bordello, not my mother, and  _ especially _ not yourself. I mean, I already  _ know _ you’re fucking useless, but for some reason, my mother doesn’t yet. It’s not going to be any fun unless I  _ at least  _ give you a fighting chance. So get the fuck up off of your lazy, bony ass, and follow me.”

Slowly, Katsumi stood up, keeping her head bowed. “Why do you hate me so much?”

“ _ Hate  _ you? Hah! You’re giving yourself  _ way _ too much credit there, pumpkin,” replied Ástríðr, her voice heavy with condescension. “ _ Hating  _ you is completely beneath me. No. I don’t like how you come in here all high and mighty like you’re hot shit just ‘cause Mother cut you a break. I don’t like that look in your eye. You’re  _ trouble,  _ bitch. You’re eleven  _ fucking _ malms of bad road—a ticking time bomb that I refuse to allow near  _ my _ friends when it inevitably detonates. No, slut. I don’t  _ hate _ you. But I  _ know  _ your kind.”

With that, Ástríðr flipped her hair over her shoulder, and for the first time, Katsumi caught a flash of an ear that tapered to a point.

“You’re not human…” breathed Katsumi.

“Mm?” hummed Ástríðr. “If you’re saying I’m not a hume, of course not. I’m an elf. Humes can only  _ wish  _ they looked this good.”

Then comprehension flashed across Ástríðr’s face. “Wait…you don’t know what elves are, do you?”

Katsumi shook her head.

“So, you probably have no idea what’s underneath this…” she continued, indicating her codpiece. “Well then. I changed my mind. Maybe you  _ will  _ be of use after all. Come by my room after we close up for the night, and I’ll let you  _ get acquainted  _ with the  _ real  _ Ravager. Gonna put all those boys you’ve been with to shame.”

“Boys?” asked Katsumi, her anger dissipating into confusion.

“Don’t tell me you’re a virgin, too…” groaned Ástríðr.

“Why? Is that bad?” asked Katsumi.

“It’s like the gods themselves decided to torment me…” Ástríðr muttered. “Fine, fine. Come to my room after hours, or I’ll  _ drag  _ you there on your hands and knees by your hair. Now, follow.”

Ástríðr began to walk away, and like before, Ástríðr, being significantly taller than her, had several times her stride length, making her difficult to keep pace with. Still, Katsumi managed it.

They walked past several open rooms, many of them open and currently unused. “The girls tend to prefer to keep their own chambers separate from those they work in. I’m sure you’ll come to understand why soon enough.”

Katsumi merely nodded and hummed her affirmation. She didn’t like this woman, Ástríðr, but all the same, she felt strangely drawn to her. In that moment of recognition, she remembered that she had often been considered to have bad taste in men, but that she had always silently attributed that to the fact that she had no way to differentiate between good men and bad. Each were onerous in their own way, after all, especially since she had always, since a young age, vastly preferred the fairer sex. But now that she felt so irrepressibly attracted to Ástríðr despite what the woman had done— _ or perhaps,  _ **_because_ ** _ of it,  _ whispered a part of her mind that sounded suspiciously familiar—she wondered if her womanhood, which had begun to grow uncomfortably damp upon first seeing the woman and even now continued to do so, was simply a poor judge of character.

She nearly ran directly into Ástríðr when the woman stopped, and only just managed to make it seem as though her abrupt cessation of movement was intentional, and not reactionary. Something about the smirk on Ástríðr’s face told her that she had failed, though she had a suspicion Ástríðr had the wrong idea as to what was truly going on inside her head. She noticed a man limping out of the room in front of them, young and significantly more grizzled than his youth would imply, visibly sore, with every wince giving away his pain, but also grinning like a moon-struck fool. 

“Looks like Kagura’s got another satisfied customer under her belt,” remarked Ástríðr. “Kagura and Kyomi are sisters, just so you’re aware.”

Katsumi was about to ask why that was important when out walked what her mind could only describe as a usagimimi, or bunny-girl. Naked as the day she was born, the bunny-girl walked out of the room, and leaned against the threshold. “Hmm. Those eyes… You look like you’d be good for a fight. Though, a bit more meat on your bones wouldn’t go amiss, either.”

The bunny-girl’s voice was husky, but her tone was rough, and more than a little masculine. She sounded like a sukeban—no, actually, she sounded more like a young Yakuza than she did a typical high-school sukeban. A sukeban would only be able to  _ attempt _ what the bunny-girl seemed to do naturally. Her face, though possessed of a certain exotic comeliness, was far and away her least remarkable feature. Her hair and the fur on her ears were both the colour of charcoal, her flesh had a tan a gyaru would kill for, and her eyes were a startling, almost metallic, lustrous silver hue. She was tall, and willowy for that height, but her freely and immodestly presented assets far outclassed Katsumi’s own, only falling short of Ástríðr’s. Looking down, Katsumi saw that the only piece of clothing she wore even when naked was a pair of severe, almost comically acute, spiked heels.

“Kagura here’s a vii.”

“Vee?”

“ _ Vii, _ ” corrected Kagura. Then she turned to Ástríðr. “I assume this one’s the new girl, boss?”

“Indeed,” sighed Ástríðr.

“Mm. Tandem’s been teaching me a few things. I’d like to see how useful they are against a  _ real _ opponent…”

Ástríðr quickly pushed Kagura back into the room. “Can you  _ not  _ keep it in your pants for  _ five fucking minutes,  _ Kagura?!”

“It’s my senninitis!” Kagura whined in protest. “I have to fight someone, or else I die!  _ It’s a serious medical condition! _ ”

“We  _ both  _ know Kyomi made that up  _ as a joke! _ ” Ástríðr yelled right back, shoving her forward and sending her sprawling, before kicking the door closed behind her. “Sorry, slut. She’s a bit of a handful sometimes.”

Katsumi merely nodded mutely, before motioning for Ástríðr to lead on. When the elf woman began to walk away, Katsumi opened the door a sliver and whispered, “I’ll meet you outside the city tomorrow afternoon!”

“Thanks!” Kagura called back.

Katsumi then turned away, let the door close behind her, and ran to catch up to Ástríðr.

“You realise you just signed up to fight a never-ending battle, right?”

“Wouldn’t be my first time,” sighed Katsumi.

“Kagura’s not called insatiable for her bedroom performance alone. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“So do I…” Katsumi muttered.

“See that you do. I don’t fuck mincemeat.”

“You keep saying that as though having sex with you is a goal I should aspire to…”

“You can’t keep your eyes off my tits, my ass, or my codpiece for  _ two minutes, _ and you’re disputing that losing your v-card to me is anything  _ but _ a goal?” Ástríðr said, her eyebrow cocked as she spoke over her shoulder.

“I— I—” Katsumi stuttered as she flushed scarlet. “Don’t get the wrong idea! I was lost in thought, alright!”

“Suuure…” said Ástríðr, smirking broadly. 

“Tsundere desu ka?”

“Iie,” Katsumi replied on reflex. Then she froze, and whirled about.

Standing right behind her, bent slightly at the waist to put her face in Katsumi’s hair, was another vii. This one was like night and day to the one she had just seen, having the same colouration, though nowhere near the same facial features, as Tandem. In fact, her albinism seemed even  _ more  _ pronounced with how almost transparent her skin seemed—paper-thin, almost. There were blue veins and black arteries pulsing just beneath the surface if Katsumi looked closely enough, and with how closely the other woman was holding her face to Katsumi’s, it was unavoidable that she pick those details up beneath a thin dusting of powder to conceal the more unsettling aspects of the vii’s condition.

Unlike Kagura,  _ this  _ vii wore her hair long, splitting the curtain of lily-white, almost translucent hair somewhere around the nape of her neck, and pulling it apart into two tails. Her blood-red eyes seemed to conceal a barely-constrained mania beneath a veneer of simple mischief. “Mou… Honto ni?”

“Kyomi! Speak normally!” barked Ástríðr.

“Oh, Ástríðr-chan… Irked that this girl and I share a closer connection already than what  _ you  _ have with her? I  _ knew  _ you were the jealous type!” tittered the albino vii, Kyomi.

“You and your twisted perspectives on things, Kyomi…” muttered Ástríðr.

“Mmm…” hummed Kyomi, placing a finger on her cheek and tapping it as she mimed thinking. “No, I think  _ this _ time, I’m spot-on.”

“Slut, this is Kyomi,” Ástríðr called out, almost as though she was trying to overpower Kyomi vocally. “She’s the dominatrix the men pay for when they want to forget about life for a while.”

“My clients find my methods  _ very _ therapeutic,” Kyomi offered with a wink.

“I’m…sure they do,” replied Katsumi. Bowing at the waist, she introduced herself. “Katsumi of the Fallen Rain, at your service.”

“Oh! I like that!  _ At my service,  _ are you?” Kyomi remarked teasingly. Then she turned to Ástríðr. “This one’s a real find. You’d best lock her down, lest I see fit to steal her from you.”

Ástríðr snorted. “You can have her once I’m done with her.”

“Oh, Ástríðr-chan. Still so dishonest with her own feelings…” sighed Kyomi. “When she kicks you out, Katsumi-chan, feel free to come to my room. My bed’s always open to the lost and lonely…”

“Kyomi!” barked Ástríðr, a light blush dusting her cheeks with a rosy hue. “That’s quite enough, thank you!”

“Aww. I suppose that’s my cue!” said Kyomi, tilting her head and clapping her hands together. “We’ll play soon, okay, Katsumi-chan?”

“Umm…okay?” replied Katsumi, completely nonplussed by the entirety of this bizarre series of events.

“Hajimemashou!” called Kyomi as she turned around and walked away, waving.

“Begin  _ what? _ ” Katsumi asked aloud.

“Best not to ask. Kyomi’s a genius, but like her sister, she’s a handful. Sometimes to an even greater degree,” said Ástríðr as she turned around and waved Katsumi on to follow her.

Katsumi nodded uneasily, and turned to follow the larger woman. 

Three doors down from where Kyomi had accosted them, Ástríðr and Katsumi came upon a chamber that Ástríðr stopped in front of. “This is  _ your  _ room. Your work room will be just next door when my mother decides you’re ready to make yourself useful for once.”

“And where is  _ your _ work room?” Katsumi asked innocently.

“Pumpkin, I’m a  _ bouncer, _ ” said Ástríðr. “My job is to eject people who get too rowdy or try and take something that isn’t for sale. It doesn’t happen often, but it  _ does  _ happen. But because I know not to shit where I eat, I go to other brothels to get my rocks off. There’s a system we have for letting a bouncer know when something’s going wrong. Use it, and I’ll  _ consider _ coming to your aid. Though Sonja will probably come running, the idiot. Anyway, my room’s two doors down on the right.”

“Mm,” hummed Katsumi, nodding sharply once.

Ástríðr looked at Katsumi curiously. “Most new whores would be intimidated by that, the idea of a bouncer not coming to their rescue.”

“Do you think this would be the first time I’d be at the mercy of a man?” Katsumi asked, her voice hollow as remembrances came rushing back to her.

“You said you were a virgin!”

“And that’s been more difficult than you can imagine. I’m no stranger to having men demand things of me I wasn’t willing to give, and I’m no stranger to seeing them grow violent with that denial. I watched as my older sister suffered and died because she capitulated, as one capitulation turned into another, and eventually as she and my unborn niece were beaten to death in the street. Spurned by our parents, by her first love, and all those who had once professed to be her friends, I was the only one left who cared to bury her.” Katsumi sighed. “I’m aware of the cruelty of men. I can take care of myself.”

With that, Katsumi walked into the room. She turned around to come face-to-face with Ástríðr’s poleaxed expression, and said, “I’ll knock on your door at the stroke of two. I will knock but thrice. If after the third time, the door is not open, I will assume that what I just divulged made you retract your demand for me to allow you to sexually assault me. If that is the case, I bid thee good night, Ástríðr.”

Katsumi closed the door to her room in Ástríðr’s face, and then sighed. “Time to check out what I have at my disposal…

-

When the stroke of two rang out across the entire city of Maelnaulde, coming from the Cathedral District’s massive clocktower—Katsumi had been reading a book written in her native Japanese concerning the geography of the metropolis, which Madam Tsuyu had thoughtfully provided—Katsumi sat up from her reclined position on her sofa, and began to pad towards the door. 

The bordello to this point had sustained a dull roar audible from anywhere in the building as sounds of carousing penetrated the walls and floorboards. To hear all of that grow suddenly silent was eerie, and made the shadows cast from the corridor’s flickering sconces lengthen perfidiously. Still, she padded barefoot in her shift down the hallway, counting the doors as she went until she came to a stop in front of Ástríðr’s room. 

Sighing, she composed herself before knocking. Four times did her knuckles rap against the rich wood of the door. She waited, and nothing happened.

“One,” she counted off beneath her breath. She knocked again, the same number of times. “Two… Next one is three…”

She repeated the process once more.

No response.

Katsumi sighed, and turned away from the door. She was about to take her first step, but before her foot hit the ground, she hesitated. Cursing her instincts, and hoping against hope that they weren’t going to kill her this time, she opened the door and slipped into the room, closing it behind her.

Ástríðr was lying there in a plush feather bed, staring blankly at the far wall. Katsumi had no idea why she was doing what she was about to do, but before she could talk herself out of it, her feet were moving, and she walked up to the side of Ástríðr’s bed. Pulling back the covers a bit, she slipped into the bed beside Ástríðr and, despite her small size, spooned up next to her. She grabbed the amazonian woman’s shoulder and pulled her back flush against her own chest. Katsumi sighed, and nuzzled into the back of Ástríðr’s neck, and closed her eyes, letting her consciousness and her senses fall away one by one, until all that was left for her was a dreamless oblivion. And it was in that position that sleep came to her for the first time since the death that even now was becoming clearer and clearer.

_ Weep not for the dead… Weep for the living, whose life, now bereft, goes on… _

-

Ástríðr awoke in a rose-scented embrace. It soothed her into consciousness, coaxing her senses alight one by one. The first was smell, of course. It smelled of the perfumes and rose petals her mother used in her baths. The second was hearing, when she listened to the steady but frequent breath against the nape of her neck. The third was tactile, and though this was perhaps a bit far-fetched, she could feel the beating of a heart against hers, which seemed to flutter like the wings of a hummingbird against her back. The fourth was taste, when she became cognizant of the flavour of stale alcohol on her tongue. Then, and only then, did she open her eyes, and see the sunlight streaming through her window as always.

_ So then what else am I sensing? Sonja and I haven’t slept together since we were young, and the girls tend to prefer their privacy, so who… _

And then the previous day came flowing back into her mind.  _ The new girl. _

She nearly snarled at the very idea that this  _ cheap slut  _ had the audacity to waltz into  _ her room  _ like she bloody well owned the place. But then, through the haze of booze—and not a hangover, she was never hungover, elves didn’t  _ get  _ hungover—came the memory of the tail end of the previous night. The  _ lifelessness  _ in the girl’s tone disturbed her to the point where, given the context of her own behaviour, she went down to the bar and caroused with the men to forget the implications of what she had heard. She drank several grizzled veterans under the table consecutively, but no amount of alcohol would expunge the haunting voice in her head repeating the girl’s words over and over again, so she went to bed and tranced.

And now said girl was spooning against her the next morning.

_ Not to mention, she’s the big spoon… _

She tried to shift, but all too quickly the girl’s hand tensed, seizing her by the shoulder, and though she could have easily broken free, being somewhere on the order of twice as strong judging by build alone, that hand was like the clasp of iron until it finally relaxed.

When the hand and arm embracing her slackened, it fell away, and the first person to stir was the girl. “I know you’re awake, so I want you to shut up for a moment and listen.

“I don’t need your pity. Not yours, nor anyone else’s. I made peace with nee-san’s death a long time ago. I’m not a doll, and I’m nowhere near as fragile, physically or emotionally, as you seem to think I am. Now, I’m going to go back to my room, I’m going to get my sword, and I’m going to leave the city to train for a few hours before your mother has need of me. It has been alluded to on several occasions that you and the vii sisters you’re friends with are actually adventurers, so if that turns out to be the case, I invite you all with me. Otherwise, you can, I don’t know, stay in here and sleep in. Up to you. I literally cannot force you in one direction or the other,” said the girl. She stood from the bed and straightened her shift. “Because I understand you were just trying to protect yourself and your friends, I will forgive you for treating me as you have. But Ástríðr?”

At that moment, the girl looked over her shoulder, and her eyes met Ástríðr’s. Her previously lustrous purple eyes, which glinted like amethysts, were now dull, and lifeless. Her eyes were lidded, and her face was devoid of expression or any outward sign of emotion. “If you threaten me like you did again, daughter of my employer or not, I  _ will  _ kill you. Understood?”

Ástríðr nodded mutely.

Then, like someone flipped a switch, the girl’s entire countenance softened, and she favoured Ástríðr with a gentle smile, even though the glittering of her eyes at this point was noticeably melancholic. “Then let’s get along, don’t you think, Ástríðr?”

With that, the girl turned away and walked to the threshold.

“We’re still not friends!” called Ástríðr.

The girl chuckled mirthlessly. “Now when did I  _ ever  _ suggest we were?”

She crossed the threshold and walked down the corridor, leaving Ástríðr confused, a bit frightened, and most perplexingly, more than a little hurt.

-

The stroke of ten saw the girls stirring from their roosts at last, even though it wasn’t until half an hour later that they all ended up in the tavern on the first floor. Tandem brought out the coffea, and it wasn’t long before Kyomi and Kagura were imbibing the black fluid like it was water. Sonja joined them soon after, Ástríðr being a bit more aloof, it seemed, even amongst her friends, and this was the scene onto which Katsumi walked when the clocktower struck eleven, and the chimes rung out across the city. She was dressed in a pair of trousers and a tunic, soft leather boots on her feet, and her kriegsmesser strapped to her back in its scabbard, a leather satchel slung across her torso to rest at her hip.

Kyomi was the first to look up and notice Katsumi’s entrance, laughing at her attire. “You thinking of going out and looking for mercenary work? As if anyone will give  _ us  _ work…”

“Strength has a way of overcoming prejudice,” said Katsumi. “If we wish to handle jobs for people, we have to grow more capable.”

“What a naive viewpoint. We can be as effective as we want, and the nobles will still give jobs to their own kind,” Kyomi muttered, filling her cup with more coffea.

Katsumi shrugged. “Then we take on the jobs that no one else can. In that case, we must become even  _ more _ capable.”

“Hah! I like that,” Kagura barked with mirth. “That’s some real fighting spirit you’ve got there, Kasumi.”

“ _ Katsumi, _ ” replied Katsumi pointedly.

“And you  _ honestly  _ think you can do that?” Kyomi asked cynically. Gone was the ‘nee-san, ara ara’ act of the night before, and in its place was a still-polite, if much more brusque, affect. “Okay. I’ll indulge you. What’s your level?”

“Level?” asked Katsumi, perplexed to the point where she couldn’t help but furrow her brow.

“You think you can be an adventurer with no knowledge of your Parameter?!” Kyomi cried in distress.

“Girl’s got guts!” Kagura proclaimed.

“More like a death wish!” Kyomi scolded.

“Mm. It’s all the same to me.”

“Yes, it would be, wouldn’t it?” Kyomi sighed. “Well, before you go out and get yourself killed, come here and let me explain a few things.”

“Hai,” said Katsumi, slipping her hand into the satchel and pulling out the sealed scroll Maerwhentt had called her ‘Parameter.’ She took a seat at the table, and refused the cup of coffee the other of Madam Tsuyu’s twins, Sonja, pushed towards her. She took a quick peek at Sonja, and immediately couldn’t imagine ever confusing the twins for each other—Sonja just appeared so much  _ kinder  _ than her sister, and quite a bit more unsure of herself. Tearing her gaze away from Sonja at that point, she refocused on Kyomi, whose blood-red eyes were fixed on her. Katsumi stared directly back at her, resolute.

“Hajimemashou, I suppose,” Kyomi sighed. “So. What you have in your hands there is your Parameter. There are many like it. That one is yours. When you signed your name in the register at the Guild, which is required by law, it bound itself to you. You see, when you are gifted with a class by the Crystals, it fundamentally alters your soul. No one really knows how, and animism, the study of the nature of souls, has been a deeply forbidden, kill-on-sight art for several millennia now. No white mage really understands how their Raise spell functions, only that it does.

“Anyway, this alteration in your soul is what the Parameter tracks. The registers and Parameters are the only remnants of animism that still remain on Gaea, you understand, as they require no actual knowledge of the art to be used and useful. And as the body is but the physical expression of the soul, this change in your soul will affect your physical capabilities.

“So, the Parameter tracks your capabilities by splitting them up into eight independent faculties. Strength, dexterity, vitality, agility, mind, intelligence, luck, and charisma. Four tangible attributes, four esoteric. Different classes rely on different faculties; for example, a black mage relies  _ entirely  _ on the intelligence attribute, as it governs their ability to cast powerful destructive spells, collectively called ‘black magic.’”

“So, black mages are more intelligent than others?” asked Katsumi.

“No, they aren’t. You have to understand that these faculties were originally in Cetra, the language of the Ancients, which, since the disappearance of the Ancients, has been a dead tongue. Cetra was more a conceptual than practical language, even in its heyday, which makes sense; the Ancients were said to be conceptual creatures themselves, entities with the ability to create entire cosmoi purely through force of will, before they mysteriously vanished. My point is that when I speak of the intelligence attribute, I’m not speaking of actual intelligence—the original term just doesn’t translate, so intelligence is the closest we can come to the actual meaning of the term, even though the original term and the word now used are about as similar as a tomato is to the spell ‘Flare.’ Strength doesn’t make you stronger, agility doesn’t make you more agile, et cetera. Rather, the most accurate way to perceive them is through their derived attributes, as well as their associated skills.

“It’s also worth noting that each faculty is linked to an element. Strength is fire, dexterity is water, agility is air, vitality is earth; intelligence is darkness, mind is light, luck is thunder, and charisma is wood. In the old days, it was theorised that strength in one resulted in weakness in the opposite faculty, and the elements helped determine these strengths and weaknesses. There’s little empirical evidence either way, however.

“There are also skills. Any complete accounts of all existing skills have ultimately failed in the research phase, as there are some historical records of classes with unique skills that have since died out, but it’s generally accepted that the skills you can learn are limited by your class. Some classes have more skills than others, but those classes pay for their increased skills in that each skill increases independent of every other skill, so the time spent raising one skill is time spent  _ not _ raising another. Generally speaking, your skills are capped with each level, though the cap depends on the skill itself and its relationship to your class.”

“Um, Kyomi, you forgot to explain levels,” Kagura pointed out.

“I was getting to that!” spat Kyomi. “So, adventurers are sort of like parasites. All adventurers absorb the life energies of the things they kill, and that life energy is stored in the altered portion of your soul. That portion then expends that energy at certain intervals all at once in order to raise your faculties, which  _ can  _ be quantitatively measured, by the way—another reason why you  _ really _ shouldn’t take their terminology to be equivalent to their cognates in common parlance. When those faculties are raised, so too are your skills to another benchmark.”

“So, is there a limit to how many levels you can gain?”

“The highest level that’s ever been verifiably reached is fifty,” replied Kyomi. “However, accounts exist from times of eld of adventurers who have raised their levels to higher thresholds. The most anyone has ever claimed without being considered by experts to be incredibly ahistorical is seventy-five; though there are accounts of levels going higher, most experts of history don’t seem inclined to believe them.”

Katsumi nodded. “Mm.”

Kyomi cocked her head. “I’m actually rather surprised that you’ve lasted this long. Everyone else needed to take my explanation in parts as opposed to all at once.”

“I know I did,” Kagura volunteered.

“We all know _you_ did, you oaf,” Kyomi returned, slugging her sister in the shoulder playfully.

“Mm. I guess that perhaps I’ve always been a good student?” Katsumi posited with a shrug of her shoulders. “I don’t know.”

“Well, that was the theoretical portion of the lesson. Now for the practical.” Kyomi stretched out her arm, her open palm facing upwards. “Your Parameter, if you please?”

“Oh! Sure!” said Katsumi, slipping the rolled-up scroll into Kyomi’s outstretched hand.

“Thank  _ you, _ ” said Kyomi as she opened up the scroll. Her eyes bulged immediately upon seeing what was on it. She looked from the Parameter to Katsumi and back again, her head turning comically. When she spoke, her voice shook. “This… This  _ has  _ to be some sort of mistake… A fake, a forgery… It  _ has _ to be… You  _ can’t _ be…”

“What? What can’t she be, sis?” asked Kagura, somewhat concerned.

Kyomi lifted her wide, horrified eyes to Katsumi, who looked back at her quizzically. “You can’t be…” 

Sonja, who had until now been watching with an increasingly furrowed brow, began to speak in a calm, level tone. “Kyomi. Please. Spit it out.”

“The last dark knight…!”

Silence fell.


	4. The Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of a massive update to synchronise the two postings once more.

The band of five left the inland gate of Maelnaulde with nary a raised brow. Armour, after all, was something only nobles could reliably afford, and so a small band of plainclothes-wearing adventurers entering the forest that surrounded the once-great kingdom didn’t draw attention, or at least, no more than the eclectic mix of races would have otherwise. The fact that Maelnaulde’s aristocracy was predominantly made up of elves meant that two elven sisters associating with a pair of viis, let alone a drahn, was a strange sight indeed—even more so considering that said drahn was taking point, with the twins taking up the rear. 

Once they had put an appreciable distance between themselves and the city gates, they began to look for a clearing in the lightly-forested countryside outside of the Free City’s boundaries. It didn’t take long for them to find one, and a short time later, Ástríðr, the group’s bard, slid her xiphos home, while Sonja, the paladin, did the same with her spatha, though her shield, an aspis, remained on her off-arm, ready to defend if need be. Kyomi, who was a summoner, stayed off to the side, her grimoire under one arm while she kept her quill, which was designed, it seemed, to be thrown with lethal effect, to hand. Kagura took up her place at one side of the clearing, the vii grinning to an almost feral extent as she fingered the circular guard of her sword, which looked to Katsumi’s eyes like a katana, but was actually a _tachi_ according to Kagura’s clarification. 

As far as stats and levels went, Katsumi kept in mind that there were five levels _at least_ between her and Kagura. With only a single day of training under her belt, Katsumi was only Level 3, while Kagura was anything from Level 7 to Level 10. She knew that Sonja was the highest-levelled one amongst them at Level 10, while Kyomi was the lowest (her excepted), at Level 7, and thus it stood to reason that Kagura could only be somewhere between the two. As such, she didn’t really have much of a chance of actually coming out on top in this battle based on that power discrepancy alone. Not to mention, there was also the fact that drahn had the lowest starting stats of all the civilised races across the board. The official line was that the Crystals themselves were reluctant to shine their light upon such duplicitous creatures, and though Katsumi thought that sounded like drivel, just more propaganda to justify racism, the fact remained that her Parameter put her starting stats as irreconcilably poor.

However, there was an oddity that gave her hope.

Stat growth was based upon the class bestowed upon you by the Crystals, and thus some classes grew in different ways than others. But the dark knight class apparently had caused her stat growth to explode to the degree where, in terms of pure attributes, she was nearly equal to Sonja, and several in particular exceeded Sonja’s own value in the given statistic. Mind, however, the stat that governed the clerical arts of the white mages, was, to the surprise of no one, absolutely dismal in her case.

The end result was that while the gap between Katsumi and Kagura was still there, it wasn’t nearly as vast as the level difference and their racial trends would suggest. The purpose here was to see just _how_ vast that gap actually was in practise.

Kagura slid into a stance that Katsumi had seen a thousand times before. Iaido wasn’t exactly popular anymore when she was young in Japan, but she had still seen its like in period dramas and anime; as such, Kagura’s blade-drawing stance was easily and instantaneously recognizable. Katsumi had no such ability to draw her weapon immediately, and so she drew her kriegsmesser and took the low stance she remembered taking when killing Zeid, watching for that telltale moment when Kagura would draw her tachi, and the fight would begin.

A moment.

A clash rang out. Kagura’s tachi against the kriegsmesser, and in short order, Kagura had to put both hands on the grip, gritting her teeth with the effort of not being forced off-balance. With both hands and struggling, Kagura changed the angle of her tachi and the kriegsmesser’s blade went sliding down that of the far eastern weapon. Kagura brought the tachi high and prepared to cut down into Katsumi’s shoulder, ready to claim victory. There was simply no way such a massive blade, however elegant, could be brought to bear in time. The tachi descended—

—Another clash. The kriegsmesser shook with the effort of parrying Kagura’s swing, but still unerringly brought the other weapon upwards. With the tachi and kriegsmesser locked above them, Katsumi slammed her shoulder into Kagura’s chest, sending her wheeling backwards.

“How…?!” The exclamation came unbidden from Ástríðr’s mouth. “How is she this skilled?!”

“It isn’t skill,” explained Sonja as she stepped forth. “A Level 3 adventurer shouldn’t be able to hold their own against a monster like Kagura at a level difference of six. The numbers don’t match up.”

“Is it luck?” Ástríðr asked.

Sonja shook her head.

As Kagura stumbled to regain her balance, Katsumi was once more upon her, the kriegsmesser aimed at her stomach. Kagura parried and forced the weapon out wide, but before Kagura could recover, Katsumi pirouetted with the momentum of her blade and brought it screaming into Kagura’s side. Kagura grunted with the effort of stopping the kriegsmesser, and even then, she didn’t manage to stop it until the edge was a hair’s breadth away from her flesh.

Kagura took one step back, planted her feet, and brought the kriegsmesser up, over her head, and to the ground on the other side of her body. Then she lifted up her front foot and planted her boot firmly into Katsumi’s abdomen, sending the drahn flying backwards.

The kriegsmesser was still on the ground, but some bestial instinct consumed Kagura at that moment. Some part of her deep down knew that Katsumi would do her best to continue fighting even without her weapon until she could no longer fight. After all, that’s what Kagura herself would have done in Katsumi’s situation. So she advanced as quickly as she could on her opponent, tachi at the ready, her entire form sparking with invisible energy. Closing quickly even as Katsumi scrambled to her feet, Kagura pulsed the energy into one of the techniques she had learned under Tandem’s tutelage.

Time slowed to a crawl before seeming to cease entirely. Kagura slashed once, and then again. The dimension collapsed in the space between moments when both strikes realised themselves into being.

“Tachi: Enpi!”

Time resumed, and both slashes struck true, biting deep into the drahn girl’s chest, leaving a deep wound in the shape of an X.

Katsumi, for a moment, didn’t register the sensation as anything but a distant acknowledgement that her flesh had been parted. In that moment that seemed to stretch on to eternity, the cold focus with which she had fought up to that point stole into her limbs, and she felt nothing, not the clothes on her skin, nor even the breath of the wind on her face.

Then came the pain.

Like an explosion, one moment it was not there, and the next it was all she could feel. She remembered hearing how during moments of high adrenaline, a person could hear their heartbeat in their ears, consuming all other sound until the dull thudding of blood flowing through their veins devoured their existence, their awareness. She imagined that in the moment where the pain consumed all, that she knew what they were talking about.

Her blood sprayed onto the ground, and ran thick from the wound. Dimly, she was aware of Kagura staggering backwards, shocked at the damage she had done. A mortal wound, Katsumi knew. An ordinary person would not survive this kind of damage. Bile rose in her throat, and it would not be denied; she hacked it up into her hand, and when she brought her hand away, it was stained a brilliant shade of red.

Then the colour bled out of the world. It bled quickly, like she was, and suddenly time had stopped. In that moment, as she was intimately aware of her own mortality, she could feel the thrumming of the Darkside within, pounding incessantly like a war-drum.

_…Listen…_

_…Listen to it._

_This is our heartbeat…_

Underneath her skin, Katsumi felt the sliding of scales, like those of a reptile, and the working of serpentine muscle. She could feel the burning glare of scarlet eyes in her soul, and in her mind’s eye there was an awareness of a great winged beast from which all of this had sprung.

_Serve…_

_Save…_

_Slave…_

_Slay…_

_Release me…_

_Foolish Master…_

_Throw wide the Gates, that I may pass…_

In that moment, Katsumi nodded within herself, for she could not move her body; and in that instant, she knew only the void.

* * *

“Kagura! What were you thinking!” cried Kyomi, the first to break from their shocked paralysis at the fatal wound that had been dealt.

Kagura turned her head to her sister to try to explain, though she knew no explanation would suffice. But as soon as she did that, she felt…a pulse. There really was no other word for it. In that moment, there was absolute silence; the breeze went stagnant, the wood of the trees no longer creaked, the faint sounds of the city, the wildlife, and the world itself suddenly halted, as if existence itself held its breath. 

It happened almost in slow motion. Kyomi’s eyes went wide, her jaw dropping, as the twins had similar reactions; Kagura’s head began to turn back to the body she somehow knew would no longer be as defenceless, and then an aura erupted into existence, a black and red and violet darkness that seemed poised to consume all light, lashing out in uncontrolled waves, lashing into her soul as it buffeted her back.

The dark knight, Katsumi, stood.

A hand reached out, and only instinct allowed Kagura to dodge out of the way in time, and then only by a hair’s breadth, as the sword, the kriegsmesser flew close enough by her head to shear off a few strands of hair. It slammed into the dark knight’s grip with enough force to shatter an arm, and yet the drahn caught the hilt as though snatching a leaf out of the wind.

Faster than Kagura’s eye could track, the dark knight pounced into the air with a flip worthy of a contortionist, bringing down the sword blade first with all the momentum of the descent behind it. She swung her tachi up in a parry, but the kriegsmesser bit deeply into the otherwise immaculate blade, past the hamon. The dark knight leapt back from that, executing a backflip through the air, landing on a still-standing tree trunk. Crouching, Kagura’s opponent kicked off from the tree, the trunk exploding into splinters with the force of it, and the point of the sword came screaming into Kagura’s chest. She brought the tachi up to try to catch the piercing tip of the metal blade on the metal of her weapon, but the kriegsmesser would not be denied, shearing through the tachi’s steel without slowing, and entering her chest, to come out of her back.

In that moment, Kagura looked at her opponent, and saw instead of the previously violet irises bottomless pits of scarlet hellfire. There were no whites to her eyes anymore—the inferno consumed every bit of her eyes, and the radiance from them would have been visible even in the deepest darkness.

Kagura punched the dark knight in the face, and the beast’s head snapped backwards swiftly enough that the vii was certain that she had broken the other combatant’s neck. But then the head bobbed back up in an unnatural, marionette-like motion, and the sickening crack that resounded told her that somehow, the break was healed. Her opponent, though, didn’t smile, didn’t grin like a feral animal delighting in bloodshed—the cold blankness of the beast’s expression, then, was all the more terrifying for it.

The dark knight planted its feet and drew the kriegsmesser out of the wound in Kagura’s chest; Kagura, for her part, staggered backwards, going to her knee. The kriegsmesser wound itself back, ready to lop her head off of her shoulders, and then went in for the kill.

Sonja’s spatha drove the kriegsmesser upwards. “That’s _enough!_ ”

Without a word, the dark knight brought the large sword back to bear and swung out to strike at the paladin; Sonja’s aspis caught the blade, but the kriegsmesser still bit into its surface, and the elf’s arm shook with the effort of stopping the swing.

Sonja looked down at the clash in horror. “What monstrous strength…!”

Adjusting her grip on the sword, Sonja thrust her weapon into the dark knight. With one hand, the beast continued to grip its blade, and the elf’s off-arm began to collapse under the force; and with the other, the beast caught the spatha. The blood that appeared when the edge of the sword cut into the flesh of the dark knight’s hand hissed as it touched the blade, and smoke began to rise from the grip.

“Is her blood acid…?!”

“Ástríðr! Not the time to gawk!” cried Kyomi from Kagura’s side, doing her best to help her wounded sister remain upright. “More healing, less talking!”

“...Right!” Ástríðr affirmed. Slipping her flute from her pouch, she settled into the familiar motions of playing ‘Army’s Paeon,’ a magic song that caused wounds to knit themselves shut. It was the most basic healing song a bard could learn, but given her low level, it was the best she could do. 

Sonja grit her teeth and planted her feet, and then launched herself forward into a charge. The beast wearing Katsumi’s skin slammed into an old growth tree, and though the impact caused the bark to fracture and crater, the savage creature could not retreat, and so was committed to a contest of pure physical strength with the paladin, an area in which Sonja had more of an advantage. The beast tried to retain their grip on the spatha, to prevent it from advancing any further towards the weapon’s intended target, but they were fighting a losing battle. It seemed the battle would be decided.

The creature ducked low, releasing the spatha so that it slammed forth into the trunk of the tree, cutting deep into the wood and getting stuck in there. Sonja yelped in surprise, moments before the beast’s off-hand curled into a fist and landed in Sonja’s abdomen with a deafening crack, and a sickening crunch.

The paladin’s feet left the ground, reaching a suspension height of seventeen centimetres _at least,_ spittle flying as she went flying backwards. She hit the ground in a heap, and the beast stomped on her ribcage hard enough that blood went flying out of Sonja’s mouth.

The beast lifted the kriegsmesser, prying it free of Sonja’s aspis and gripping it by the spine of the blade—a necessity given the size discrepancy between the weapon and the wielder—and poised its point at the paladin’s unmoving form. Lifting the blade further, the large sword then descended towards Sonja’s body.

A bright blue blur crashed into the dark knight, sending the beast careening backwards, before the blur blasted back off of Katsumi’s body and landed primly. The fire in the creature’s eyes flared noticeably as they took in the new challenger—a quadrupedal animal with four tails and the ears of a fennec fox, yet with the cranial structure of a house cat. It was the colour of the sky, and as it shook itself, sparkles flew from it.

“Carbuncle! Sic ‘em!” cried Kyomi, holding her grimoire in one hand while her other held her quill at the end of a flourish.

The summon looked back at its master and nodded. This turned out to be a bad idea, for as soon as Carbuncle turned back to regard the creature in Katsumi’s skin, the dark knight had closed the distance, and struck down at it. Carbuncle leapt into the air and to the side to avoid the strike, but was thus powerless to avoid the diagonal rising slash that immediately followed, cleaving the summon in half. A sparkling rainbow erupted from Carbuncle’s belly in place of blood, splashing against Katsumi’s bare skin; the rainbow quickly began to smoke and turn black on contact, and the colourful light became a vile black sludge that audibly splotched down onto the ground. 

A quill came whizzing past Ástríðr’s head, aiming straight for the dark knight; the kriegsmesser slashed through it. But another quill came forth, and another, and another, faster and faster until the kriegsmesser seemed almost impossibly swift in how each projectile was cut down.

One of the quills slipped past, slicing open Katsumi’s shoulder; the beast roared, and charged faster than even Sonja’s shield rush, a bang sounding out as the beast moved. Kyomi withheld her quill and hurriedly moved to parry and redirect each swing of the kriegsmesser that came after her, knowing that a blade lock would be the end of her. Her grimoire continually had to remain out of harm’s way, so she continued to angle her body into the way of the book—paying for a Raise spell was far cheaper than replacing a summoner’s grimoire.

Suddenly, a certain madness came to Ástríðr. She knew the idea was idiotic, but she was swiftly approaching the limit of her healing capability with Kagura, and Kyomi was fighting a losing battle. This in mind, Ástríðr slipped her flute away and charged. She tackled Kyomi out of the way of the next swing of the kriegsmesser, this one with both hands behind it, given that the chance of Kyomi being able to block and redirect that when she’d been struggling with one-handed swings was negligible. She threw the vii as she descended, sending the albino summoner tumbling through the grass and undergrowth. 

Kyomi safely away, Ástríðr scrambled to her feet and stood in a neutral stance towards the dark knight. To her shock, the beast didn’t move to attack her, and indeed, the hellfire in Katsumi’s eyes calmed from a raging, all-consuming conflagration to a candle-flame. There was an odd, animalistic curiosity in the creature’s eyes, still bestial, but no longer hostile. Acting on instinct, Ástríðr lifted a hand. The beast balked, retreating and beginning to move into a hostile stance as the hellfire flared, but, unperturbed, Ástríðr continued to slowly lift her hand, empty as it was, and slipped it into the gap between the horn and her flesh. Her bare hand rested, then, upon the drahn’s partly-scaled cheek, her thumb beginning to move it circular motions she hoped would be soothing.

The hellfire then snuffed out entirely, and Katsumi’s violet eyes and white sclera stared at her blankly, without comprehension, for a moment. Then they rolled up into her eyelids as Katsumi’s knees gave out beneath her, and she collapsed. Ástríðr managed to catch her, but it was a near thing.

A hand laid upon Ástríðr’s shoulder, and Kyomi’s voice came a moment later. “You calmed her down…”

“No.”

Both Ástríðr and Kyomi whirled around, and indeed, coming through the forest, astride a massive, armoured black horse that possessed eight legs, two pairs of forelegs and two pairs of hind, and crimson fire for eyes, was a knight. With each step the horse took, frost began to blossom on the ground, and the knight’s proximity made the area grow colder at a pace that was as swift as it was unnatural. What little sunlight filtered down through the canopy darkened as bruise-coloured clouds coalesced overhead. The ebon-clad knight possessed armour rather unlike any that either conscious adventurer had ever seen before, seeming contoured to resemble a muscular form in an almost decorative fashion, and overtop this was a deep blue cloak with a clasp that contained a blazing gem. 

The helmet covered the knight’s face, showing only pinpoints of hellfire where the eyes ought to have shone through, and was strangely constructed, as the faceplate was figured in the form of a stylized countenance that would have been beatific if it wasn’t so ominously and obviously demonic, while the crown of the helmet was decorated with a literal crown of spikes that resembled ancient swords, and a pair of elegant yet brutal horns curled out of it, outwards, then inwards, then straight upwards. From beneath the helmet came a cascade of bone-white hair, while from the waist down, the knight’s armour and legs were covered with a garment that seemed cut from the cloth of a moonless, starless night.

The knight’s hands possessed long digits that Ástríðr could not decide were fingers or claws, sharp as they were and tapering to points, one holding the reigns of the eight-legged hellsteed, while the other curled around the hilt of an almost absurdly long, slightly curved black sword, with a crimson fuller and a wicked single edge. The greaves of the black armour curved into sharp, rapier-like points from where they peeked through the lower garment in the stirrups, though there were no marks of the horse having been gored while riding.

“The dragon is acquainted well with betrayal, and recognizes the difference between friend and foe through hostility and peace. All who attack are enemies; when all attackers are dealt with, the dragon retreats to rest once more upon its hoard of power. The elf merely sought peace, and so the dragon’s claws did not seek to rend her. That is all. Though it is curious that the elf knew that such a thing would calm the dragon’s ire…” The knight’s voice was deep and unsettling, like metal grinding against metal, distorted and reverberating. “Frey was right to seek my aid, it seems.”

“Who are you?” asked Ástríðr.

“A servant. A saviour. A pilgrim. A crusader. All are equally true, and equally false,” replied the knight, the horse coming forth at an unseen cue. The helmet looked to the sky, and spoke. “In this world, is the destiny of mankind controlled by some transcendental entity or law? Is it like the hand of God, hovering above? At least it is true that man has no control, even over his own will…”

“What are you saying?” Ástríðr demanded.

The knight looked down. “You asked who I am. I have just answered your query as accurately as your mind can possibly comprehend.”

“What is your name, then?!” Ástríðr asked, her patience waning.

“Names are pretty things, but ultimately useless—so says the word of God. As to what you may call me, in ages past I have been called Óðinn. It shall suffice.”

“Which god?” asked Kyomi.

“The Man Crafted of Jade,” replied the knight in black, Óðinn. “The entity whose very existence holds together and enables existence as it is known.”

“Is that the god you serve?” Kyomi queried.

“Hmph. You are too clever by half, summoner. I do not hold the Jade Man to be the god to whom I owe my allegiance. The Dark Divinity, the god of my people, the Apostles, is of yet unborn. Another Apostle, Frey, asked me to be here, and it seems they were correct. The first of the Crystals has gone dark. Soon, others will follow. The Legacy of the Ancients nears its end.”

“And is Katsumi your god?” asked Kyomi.

“No,” said Óðinn, shaking their head. “No, she is not. She heralds a turning point. Our god shall be born, or the threads of destiny that heralded the birth of our Prince of Darkness shall be unmade. It all depends on her actions, which the greatest sages of the Ancients could not foretell. She represents a crossroads of fate, nothing more.”

“Well, isn’t _that_ convenient…” sighed Kyomi. “So what are you here to do, then? Just observing?”

“...No,” replied Óðinn. “Rather, I came to satisfy my own curiosity, and now that that is done, so too is my original purpose for being here. There is one thing I was bidden to give, however…”

With that, the knight reached behind him and drew forth an orb, tossing it to Ástríðr. “That rightfully belongs to your comrade, the bearer of the dark sword ‘Deatheater.’ No matter what is done to it, if it is sold, if it is thrown away… Now that it has been given, it shall ever return to her grasp.”

Ástríðr stared at the orb in her hand blankly, uncomprehendingly. It was spherical, but that was all that could be definitively said about it; it was shifting and inconstant, but also unchanging and static. It was completely transparent and totally opaque. It swam with colours beyond counting, many of which defied description, and was also a solid violet hue. “What… _is_ it?”

“A seed. Nothing more.”

“And what does it grow?”

“When the time is right, all will be revealed,” replied Óðinn. “Until then, the future remains in motion, even as the past fades and is by degrees erased. To the ends of the world, and back again, and if time has no end, still forward and onward, over and over again. Causality spirals endlessly and heedlessly to the horizon it will never reach, to an oblivion that will never truly come. So too do the struggles of men reach ever onwards towards the skies, though their efforts will never truly ascend to the heavens. Indeed, it can be said that the hand of man deals only in false justice and forsaken love; and that is why the Prince of Darkness has ever gestated, growing closer and closer to the moment of truth, where our god shall be born or be unmade. And when the moment comes, it shall be the hand of man that ushers it in. Yea, the cruelty of men shall indeed make for an apt midwife.”

Absently, the knight brought forth an iridescent white feather, and tossed it into the ground amidst the wounded. When it struck, a burst of blinding white light erupted forth, and as the light peaked and then dimmed, Sonja and Kagura were standing once more, their grievous wounds healed as they were drawn up by an unseen force into standing. Katsumi herself stirred, groaning in something approaching pain as she blinked and looked out at the world blearily, her violet eyes once more looking out upon the world.

“What…?” Katsumi asked, and then her cheeks bulged as she coughed forth a gout of blood and viscera.

“Her lungs are merely expunging the blood that filled them. Take care, bearer of the dark sword. The feathers of an angel, willingly given, are not easily obtained, and rarer still are those who will give them freely. Destiny requires you live. It does not require you _whole._ With that, I must take my leave of you. My work this day draws to a close.”

“Will we see you again?” asked Katsumi, her voice scratchy with her lungs’ attempt to discharge the fluid within them.

“Only the Hand of God may know if or when our paths may once again cross, and even they are not privy to the entirety of Fate’s chaotic skein,” Óðinn said even as their eight-legged horse began to turn about, reaching the edge of the clearing. “And yet I daresay that though it is time that I exit this scene, my part in this play has yet to wholly come to pass. If I may speak heresy, it is unlikely, I think, that we should remain strangers for all the days that yet remain.”

With that, the Apostle slashed at the air with their sword, and the fabric of reality yawned wide to allow them to pass. When the last strands of the horse’s tail passed beyond the breach, it snapped closed, and the clouds passed as warmth returned to the clearing. The frost melted as though it had never been there, and the sun once more shone down as the sounds of wildlife once more stirred to life, as though they had never ceased their endless chatter.

All was well, and yet the pall of unease that settled upon the band of five in that moment was all the stronger and more profound for it.

* * *

The orb was alive. She knew it.

The creature that her comrades had said called itself ‘Óðinn’ had not been lying when he called it a seed, she knew that much. And yet, for all of that, it felt more like what she imagined the gestation of a human baby might than the point of origin for a plant. Yet, it was not an egg, not properly, for it in itself was not a complete being, nor would it give rise to a new being entirely of its own volition given time. If she had to put a name to what she would have called it were she more ignorant of its true nature than she already was, she would have called it an ‘organ.’ A part of something greater. Yet, she also knew that the origin of a greater existence was within it, awaiting the confluence of time, conditions, and catalyst.

It… _pulsed._ There was really no better way to describe what she felt as she held it in her bare hand, and contemplated its complexities. It pulsed, and the rhythm was regular, like a heartbeat. What was most perplexing was the fact that the closer she held it, the more strongly she could feel the thrumming of life emanating from it, to the point where she could hear it dully in her ears as she held it close to her chest, like it was far away, but still absolutely and irrevocably _there._

She was in her room at the Drunken Whore, confined to her quarters as soon as Madam Tsuyu had caught a glimpse of the orb Katsumi was holding so desperately to her chest, as though the seed itself was suddenly precious to her. And it _was_ precious—

No, that wasn’t entirely accurate.

It wasn’t precious.

It was _vital._

Now several hours of fierce discussion had taken place below. Fortuitously, this was the day that the Drunken Whore was closed—by orders of the local religious authority, _all_ non-essential businesses were closed today, it being a holy day that recurred weekly, a day of rest and spiritual contemplation, which was why, she supposed, Kagura and she were allowed to have their sparring match today —so they were spared the indignity of an audience . Voices were raised several times over the time that had elapsed since their return, _almost_ loud enough to be made out, but not quite. Katsumi despised being spoken about when she wasn’t there —such things rarely bode well for the continued stability of her living situation—but there was nothing for it. Madam Tsuyu had given the order for her confinement with an expression that Katsumi knew better than to attempt to dispute. So, to distract herself from the resigned despair that was beginning to well up in her throat, to hold firm and fast to the notion that this was a different world, that things could be _different_ here, she sat on the windowsill and contemplated the strange, alien orb she had been given, along with the disconcerting sense of familiarity it evoked in her.

She had never before experienced déjà vu in the course of her existence.

She figured that that feeling couldn’t be far removed from the feeling that stirred within her as she focused upon the orb.

Ástríðr had held the orb uncomprehendingly. She did not _see._ She could not understand.

Katsumi saw. And she knew with a growing sense of resignation in absentia of dread that she was all too capable of understanding—of understanding the orb that glowed with the umbral brilliance of the darkness that laid between the stars.

Indeed, the nocturnal carpet that draped across the heavens once the sun had set was of the very same sort as that which laid within the confines of the orb.

Kyomi had theorised on their way back that the orb was some form of esoteric crystal, some variety that was lost to time.

Katsumi rejected that fool notion. This was not a crystal. A crystal, which included _the_ Crystal from which she had received her class, was not alive, was never truly alive in the first place. This, then, was no crystal—its nature was entirely organic. The consciousness that she sensed slumbering within it was entirely embryonic, and also incomplete—not developmentally, but rather as though it required more than time to complete itself. She reached out inexpertly and clumsily with her mind, attempting to communicate with it the same way the winged reptilian beast that lurked beneath her skin had communicated with her. She felt the connection being made, and suddenly she could feel a slip of something powerful, something heady, something _intoxicating._ Yet, no sooner had she noticed it, than did the thing she was perceiving stop. She was ejected from the connection, and there were words emblazoned into the forefront of her mind once she returned to herself.

_Not yet._

There came a knocking on her door, drawing her attention away from the orb. She thought about placing it on the sill, but something in her rejected that notion with a vehemence that surprised her. She had not thought herself so capable of such a strong emotion anymore, not for a long time, not since an event that was still mostly shrouded in the fog of amnesia. All the same, she took the orb with her as she slid off of the windowsill and walked over to her door, opening it for whomever stood on the other side.

“You’re not who I was expecting…” Katsumi blurted out dumbly, blinking.

Ástríðr shrugged. “Apparently since I’m the one that came up with the idea that allowed you to regain your senses, I volunteered myself to interact with you in this…delicate time.”

“Drew the short straw?” Katsumi guessed.

“No. I was selected by unanimous motion. There was no element of chance to it at all,” Ástríðr sighed.

Katsumi considered her, considered the tray the elf had in her hands, and sighed. “Well, at least you’re honest. Come in.”

Ástríðr walked into the room, and Katsumi closed the door behind her.

“So, I assume that my days here are numbered?” Katsumi ventured.

“Not…really…?” replied Ástríðr, her voice lilting in her confusion as she placed the tray down on the small circular table in the middle of the chamber. “What makes you think that?”

“I know how the game is played,” Katsumi shrugged. “When people start talking about you, when they raise their voices about you when you’re not there, even if you’re not ousted from your situation immediately after the conversation is over, your remaining days of security number in the single digits. Invariably, the story ends with you out on your ass, on the street, back to scraping to survive in an attempt to catch the next break. And then the cycle repeats itself until you become dependent on someone unstable enough to bring the sequence to its logical conclusion by finally killing you. That’s how it played out for me, at least. My sister, too, though her situation concluded much more quickly, as I’ve told you. Now, I don’t think you lot are the type to kill me—even your most vile threats never went in that direction—but ousting me? That’s most assuredly in the cards, from my experience.”

“And you’re _okay_ with that?”

“Not really. But it’s like raising an objection to it being hot in the summer or having to deal with insects during the same. There’s really nothing to be done about it, save to grin and bear it, because it’s simply the way the world is.” Katsumi shook her head. “I never understood why people want to believe in some entity of ultimate evil that causes every misfortune in our lives, when it’s always been clear to me that people’s troubles arise almost invariably from their own cruelty or the cruelty of other people. We don’t need a demon or a devil to make us evil when we’re very much capable of creating Hell for each other all on our own.”

“There’s good in people, too!”

“And when did I ever seek to contest that?” asked Katsumi. “It’s always been in the best interest of mankind to choose good over evil, and even though somewhere along the line something happened to convince people that the opposite is true, that in reality there is so much more evil in the world than there is good, that does not negate the existence of good in itself. I’ve simply stopped holding my breath for the goodness of mankind to shine down upon me. That’s all it is. That’s all it’s ever been.”

“Does it ever make you sad?”

A bitter laugh ripped itself free of Katsumi’s throat. “Sadness arises from the betrayal of expectations, and perpetuates from the continued betrayal of the hope that things will eventually get better. After a while, though, you figure out that it’s better to stop hoping, to stop looking like a foolish child to the heavens in hopes that some absent god deigns to weave an impossible miracle, to give you an honest chance of seizing the future you’ve always dreamed of. Then all you have left is exhaustion. But at least…at least it stops hurting. No, Ástríðr, I stopped being sad a long time ago. What I am is _tired._ Mankind’s suffering is a bad joke that I’ve heard before, lived before, over and over again, and it wasn’t funny the first time.”

“...I was wrong…”

 _That_ hit Katsumi like a load of bricks. “I’m sorry?”

“I was wrong, okay?” Ástríðr repeated, an expression somewhere between anger, sadness and determination on her face. “I thought…no, it doesn’t matter what I thought. But my father wasn’t thinking of ousting you. My mother wouldn’t hear of it. And…I don’t want you to go, either.”

“Well, I guess that’s nice,” sighed Katsumi. “Conscience, eh? If there is any element of the human experience that’s a grenade with a pulled pin—or a lit fuse, or whatever—it’s conscience. Its patience is limited, as is its duration. I’ve long since learned not to rely upon people who make a show of kindness to assuage their own sense of wrongdoing.”

“Look, _bitch,_ I’m not saying that because I _feel_ bad. By my estimation, you’re going to get us all killed now that we’re entangled up in this mess. The birth of a god, a religious sect that I’ve never heard of and neither of my parents are willing to talk about, prophecy, destiny, that _fucking orb_ —it’s all _way_ above my pay grade, and the pay grades of my friends. I don’t _like_ you, and I _don’t_ rightly care if you feel all warm and fuzzy around here,” Ástríðr spat with remarkable vitriol. “I said I was wrong because I thought you were just trying to slum it, nothing special or remarkable, no more significant than an errant lump of pyrite. I thought that you would never understand, never appreciate the sacrifices everyone here makes every day just to scrape by. I’m not saying I want to be your friend—I _don’t._ I’m acknowledging that you’ve as much right to be here as Kagura, Kyomi, and every broken bird we drag in here on the verge of death. _Don’t_ mistake that for kindness.”

“Why, though?” Katsumi asked, cocking her head. “What do you get out of admitting an error you think you’ve made? Wouldn’t you have much more peace of mind if you simply saw what you wanted to see and denied any evidence to the contrary of your beliefs?”

“ _What._ ”

Katsumi shrugged. “Isn’t that what normal, well-adjusted people do? Ignore anything that might conflict with the way they see the world? Isn’t that how healthy people maintain peace in their lives?”

A crack resounded throughout the room.

Katsumi dully registered the sting in her cheek, and turned her head back forward to regard the woman who had assailed her. Ástríðr’s shaking hand was still in the position of the follow-through, but it did not tremble with sadness or with hurt.

It trembled with _rage._

“Did I touch a nerve?” Katsumi asked, curious. “It was an honest question. I simply cannot see a way in which a person can find happiness in this world absent incredible luck, willful ignorance, or sheer gormless obliviousness. Or some combination of the three.”

Ástríðr laughed. It was a manic, explosive laugh that gave Katsumi reason to doubt the integrity of Ástríðr’s sanity. Her own, even, for she could not recall, within the bounds of her limited memory, ever having encountered someone, regardless of their state of sanity, laughing quite like that. “Don’t say things like that. I’m going to die of asphyxiation! Aren’t you the one who just said that good exists in the world and then threw out this idiotic line about fools being the only people capable of happiness? Pick one! _Now._ ”

“Both are true, though I suppose my phrasing was a touch imprecise. The fortunate, the fool, and the bystander—all of them are in one way or another unaffected by the suffering of their fellows. The rest of us are meant to devour each other, or suffer and starve, unseen, unheard. Invisible, ignored. Happiness is attainable for many an individual, and many find strength in connections, in the ties that bind. But for all that, I cannot in good conscience say that this is maintained through altruism. Not when my mother threw my sister out for daring to seduce her husband, deaf to my protests when I explained I had heard him the first time he forced himself upon her, and every time thereafter. She threw out her children to preserve her fantasy of a faithful, upstanding husband and a marriage she could be proud of. It was cruel, but by no means unique.

“Mankind is good. They can find happiness amongst themselves. But the preservation of that happiness requires the sacrifice of those who are suffering, who are in most in need of aid. Such was my point, and the point from which I asked what benefit you gained from admitting fault. It flies in the face of what I have witnessed time and again, from teachers, from healers, from parents, from all those whose voluntary duty it is to extend a hand to those who are near to tumbling down the void. And so I ask, once again, with no offence meant, ‘why?’”

“Pick a hole,” Ástríðr hissed, her voice quiet and her tone terse.

Katsumi cocked her head. “Excuse me?”

“I’m going to fuck you,” she replied. “I don’t know what the hells is wrong with you, but I’m going to figure something out. You threatened my life last time I tried this. Does that stand true now? Or will you accept my offer? The choice, I guess, is yours. My life or your chastity, which ends tonight?”

Fear did not stir. Instead, there was a calm, like a still pond crusted with winter frost, that settled and stole into Katsumi’s limbs. “So, this is how it will be, then? Or is this some roundabout attempt at healing that you’re simply fumbling through inexperience?”

Ástríðr merely smiled, baring her teeth with an almost malicious grin. “My life. Your chastity. Choose.”

Katsumi for once gave an honest assessment of the situation. Were this the previous day, it would not be a question. She would follow through on her warning. But the calm was deceptive; the clarity of the water concealed the true depths. And beneath the frost, subtle so as not to disturb the icy film, writhed the coils of a winged serpent, its ebon scales caressing the innermost reaches of her being. The Beast _seethed._ But she was spent, and the Beast knew. It would not leap to her defence save for if she called for it specifically, loath as it was to destroy the vessel it laboured to defend. Ástríðr knew of the Beast, as did those below, and Katsumi did not have such faith in the strength of the Beast that she believed she would survive if it were to go beyond control, to attack all that attacked it. She would be carved away until there was nothing left, no ability she had to fight, and while that was acceptable prior, now she knew that were her body to perish, were she to be swept away, the orb would be without a protector, without a way to bloom and reach for the Heavens with the stars that were its brethren.

“If I attempt to kill you, I will die,” Katsumi decided. “But to allow you to violate me would be to surrender the last of myself, and what remained would be bestial.”

“Then I’ll make this easier for you,” Ástríðr replied, calm but still intense. She pulled a knife from her boot and thrust it into Katsumi’s reach, hilt-first. “I meant what I said. I’m not going to fight back. My life or your chastity. Last chance to answer before I just pick the latter option.”

“To be perfectly blunt, _you_ are near the bottom of my list of worries concerning my mortality should I follow through. Why, though? I do not doubt Kyomi or Kagura have their fair share of such troubles. Why do mine _specifically_ cause you such disquiet?” Katsumi shook her head. “I suppose it’s entirely academic. Either case will lead to the death of my ability to affect the world, to reach for the future that my sister begged the absent gods to grant her. So be it. You may have me, and what remains shall be as it will.”

And with that, the appearance of Ástríðr melted away. 

“Most interesting,” Kyomi’s playful voice echoed throughout the hall. “I think you have your answer, eh? She’d let you fuck her before she’d kill you. Kinda boring, though. I was hoping she’d murderate the Cicada I had summoned. Oh well.”

“Can you be serious for five seconds?” Ástríðr’s voice protested in exasperation as she and Kyomi rounded the corner.

Kyomi took a deep breath and put up one finger. Meanwhile, Ástríðr looked at Katsumi and said, “Well, I guess that answers that. I won’t pretend to understand you, Katsumi. I will, however, remember this. It is not your baggage that put me here. Nor was it an attempt to heal your mind. I don’t care about your sister and your mother can go die for all I care. _You_ however, are one of mine. If I admit my failing to you, it is wholly because I’d like for you to remember that. Now, would you _mind_ if we fucked? I’m only going to let you get out of this once and never again.”

Kyomi winked at Katsumi and mouthed, _do it!_

“...Given that you asked, I must admit that if wanton cruelty is not required, it would hardly be the most objectionable thing with which I have been presented today,” Katsumi sighed. “But I would hasten to warn you that I hardly have enough experience to separate sex from attachment. I cannot in good conscience inform you that I am certain of my ability to let this be a single thing, or even a solely physical thing. I fear I lack the fortitude for either to be true.”

Ástríðr opened her mouth but then Kyomi pulled her down and whispered something into her ear. “Kyomi seems to think that I should welcome such a thing. I am less certain. Can you really say that you’ll end up like that? In love, I suppose… I am, after all… How do I put this lightly… I’m a violent, short-tempered rapist at the best of times.”

Katsumi shook her head. “I cannot say. I have...never loved another, nor have I ever received love from another. In short, I am entirely unfamiliar with the emotion. I am intellectually acquainted with the concept, however, and from what I have read in the past, I am—apparently—especially susceptible to ‘catching feelings,’ as it were. As to the flaws you have cited, I cannot speak one way or another. I have not the heart for it, to speak of such things that I do not know with the appearance of certainty so as to soothe the nerves of another. But…this I can say. Should you be willing to make the attempt, I would be remiss were I to refrain from responding in kind.” 

“Oh! She forgot narcissistic! And bipolar! And probably codependent. And…” A fist cut off the litany of neuroses Kyomi had seen fit to begin describing.

“I have already made my position clear, Kyomi. Any attempt to dissuade me from it is wasted effort and wasted breath,” Katsumi replied as Ástríðr drew her fist back. She then turned to the elf. “As for you. What will _you_ do? I’ve made my position clear, and yet your intentions remain somewhat obscure.”

“Then we see if this whole love thing can work between us,” Ástríðr answered with something approaching a smile.

“Very well. Then, shall we?” Katsumi asked, stepping aside and inviting Ástríðr into her room.

Ástríðr smirked, not unkindly, and stepped in with a nod.

The door’s closing heralded a moment of silence throughout the rest of the Drunken Whore, which was broken in short order.

“That will be fifteen gil and the next moonturn of using the water room first.”

Tandem grumbled, but the impulse tugging up at the corner of his mouth betrayed his good humour as he pulled forth his coin pouch, counting out the tender one by one, and placing them into the elegant outstretched hand of his beautiful wife with her smugly triumphant expression. “How the blazes did you know _this_ time?”

“Ancient Lycorian secret,” jested the insufferably pleased Tsuyu as she took a draw off of her ever-present kiseru.

Tandem fixed his ruby red gaze on her, holding it for a few silent moments. She scoffed. “You’ve lost your sense of humour over the years, _dear husband._ ”

“No, what I’ve _lost_ is several hundred gil and several years of washing priority to these wagers,” the elven man replied. “Including the one time when _my sister_ slept with _Kagura,_ the latter of whom _still pines for the former._ I’d like to have a chance of winning one of these, or I’ll stop taking these bets, and _then_ where will you be?”

“You say that like Yuriya wasn’t just as if not more taken with Kagura,” Tsuyu muttered. “But if you must know…women just know these things. _Especially_ mothers. _Especially_ as it pertains to their children, new and old, found and born.” 

Tandem shook his head ruefully, duly chastised. “You sure this is a good idea? This is the girl’s first time, and Ástríðr doesn’t exactly have a great track record with those.”

“There is love in the air, _daa-san._ They’ll be fine.” Tsuyu’s expression was uncharacteristically soft as she took a draw from her kiseru for a moment, before turning positively feline as her gaze returned to Tandem. “Besides. I trained our daughter myself, lest you forget. She has no chance of failure here.”


	5. Mine

Dimly, some distant compartment of Katsumi’s mind registered a few things in the hours between admitting Ástríðr into her chambers and the sky greying in preparation for the dawn, things of which, of course, she had no prior knowledge. The first was that, as the first penetration’s pain varied wildly between individual women, the eruption of sensation across her lower body, like she was being torn in half, was a pretty extreme outlier as far as deflowerings went. At least as far as she knew.

The second was that the member of a she-elf was distinct in shape and size from that of a human. It was, in reality, somewhat more akin to a cross between an equine’s and a feline’s, blunt and flared, but adorned with multiple fleshy, firm-but-not-hard barbs, more for sensation than the causing of damage. This introduced a multitude of factors into the situation she had not predicted.

The third was that apparently, as long as it wasn’t shredding or cutting her body, she  _ really  _ liked pain. The liquid fire that raced along her veins consumed every coherent thought outside of that one compartment of her mind, that one box of cognition that observed even as the barriers around it began to give way to the storm of feeling that assailed her.

The fourth was that she had grossly underestimated the veracity of the third point. When she felt the spiny flat head of Ástríðr’s member crush through her cervix, which was selectively permeable as a drahn, not bone but cartilage, her mind buckled under the strain of agony that ripped through her. Her body bucked and thrashed, her spine tensing and bending like the strained limbs of a longbow as she dimly registered a rush of fluid from her nethers, and then a dramatic release of tension that flooded her body with what seemed to be endorphins.

The fifth was that there might have been some accuracy to the claims of drahn being descended from dragons. She could think of no other way that Ástríðr’s seed flowing into her several hours and pain-induced little deaths later could be considered comforting, given that she knew that its temperature was around scalding. She knew there’d be some damage, but the feeling of it burning and boiling away the embryonic fluid-submerged flesh inside of her uterus had such an unexpectedly sweet savour to it.

It was upon realizing this that Katsumi began to log some serious questions regarding what she did and did not like when it came to sex.

She blinked, and it was hours later and the sun was rather high in the sky. Ástríðr’s hand played over her lithe form, tracing the patterns of bone-white scales that adorned her alabaster flesh as Katsumi’s tail began to lazily coil around her partner’s upper thigh. She felt that her back was pressed flush to Ástríðr’s front, and that they were, in essence, spooning, and while the feeling was surprisingly pleasant, there were still things that nagged away at her waking mind. These at the forefront, she twisted so that she was facing the other, taken slightly aback at the collection of scars the elf wore upon her body beneath the neck.

Ástríðr, though smiling slightly, looked as though she was going to say something, but Katsumi had to dispel her festering misgivings before engaging in what she could only assume was going to be ‘pillow talk.’ “Now you’ve had me. Last chance. Any second thoughts?”

Ástríðr’s face twisted in a way Katsumi couldn’t follow, but she closed her eyes and shook her head, chuckling ruefully. “I’d usually take offence to that in light of what we spoke of last night before we—”

“—were together.” Katsumi supplied quickly.

Ástríðr’s bemusement was written large across her features. “Yes, ‘were together.’ But I would be a hypocrite if I did so, as I was about to pose the same question to you.”

Katsumi smiled weakly and shook her head, an emphatic ‘no.’ “You need not worry about me. That I still had a maidenhead last night in spite of everything should indicate that I do not give it lightly. Despite our…disagreements…there is something I feel with you. Something powerful, that I can’t give accurate words to. Like a spark of some kind, tinder catching and blazing to light. I think that, one way or another, I would not forgive myself were I to allow that spark to dim and gutter out.”

“Heh. Well…” Ástríðr rolled over onto her back, and on perplexing reflex, Katsumi moved sinuously to conform her body to the formidable, muscular curvature of the elf’s body, her hand landing on Ástríðr’s chest, just above her heart, beating strong and steady. “In my case, I can safely say you are the first one who has actually desired a repeat performance out of me. I’d have to be an idiot to let that go. So I won’t.” 

“I…” Katsumi’s gaze was that of a deer in bright light, paralyzed. Then it softened, almost sad. “I’m glad. You have…no idea, the extent to which your words bring me such relief.”

Ástríðr turned her head and regarded Katsumi with a smile. “I’d ask if you wanted to go for another round, but given the time and day, I suppose it’ll have to wait for later.”

“As much as I’d like to revisit what we spent last night doing, I fear you have the right of it,” Katsumi sighed, even as she began to pull away and slide out of bed. “But…thank you. I had no idea it was going to be so… _ intense. _ ”

Katsumi could  _ feel _ Ástríðr’s hungry gaze upon her rear, her skin tingling as it was ogled lasciviously. On a whim, Katsumi put a little sway into her hips, very nearly stumbling at the change in stride that created, but thankfully her tail swished and acted as a counterbalance as well as an additional flair to the movement. There was a low growl that thrummed deep in her lower abdomen as she heard it from the bed as she moved to the wardrobe. When the she-elf spoke, that feral urge carried through her every word and pause, drawing the air to a fevered pitch of tension. “Glad I was able to impress. I’m eager to find out what this ‘regular bed-partners’ business is all about. I’m more certain than I was that it’ll be a euphoric experience.”

Katsumi no longer felt she could trust her voice, not with the delirious flush suffusing her face. She giggled a bit, figuring that wasn’t going to be read into too much, as she opened the wardrobe and dressed. Her breasts were not especially considerable—some might call them flat or small—but all the same, she wrapped her sarashi, grateful beyond measure that Madam Tsuyu had provided the correct fabric for it. Dimly, she remembered the burn of linen on her chest, makeshift and crafted from stolen rolls of bandages, and so being able to wear something like this without having to figure out the intricacies of a bodice, and without the familiar irritation, was, in light of what had transpired, in keeping with this new beginning she could not help but feel had stolen upon her while she had not been looking.

Considering what she had on offer, she decided it would not go amiss to embellish a tad, to experiment with something new. The black trousers she chose were considerably tighter in fit, but still loose enough that they did not constrict her ability to move her legs. Into this and secured with a cinch she tucked the hem of the blouse she had chosen, a loose thing, white and slightly billowing, with a lower neckline than she would have ordinarily chosen for herself, but it would obscure her frame in a pinch, buying her precious moments to escape grievous injury. The black leather boots she found were slightly firmer than the light brown ones she had worn the previous day, and were an exact fit for her feet, in contrast to the approximated size of her previous footwear. She slipped on a pair of long, thin gloves, reasoning it was better to begin wearing them sooner rather than later, so that a callus would not form in the middle of a battle, inducing a moment of fatal hesitation. Once again, she had her satchel and was securing the baldric for Deatheater when she turned around, and saw Ástríðr steadily progressing through a series of push-ups.

Naked.

The flexing of her muscles, the movement of the coiled strength as it shifted beneath her skin as sweat beaded and fell, causing her form to glisten and glow in the sunlight, was nothing short of enthralling. All thought ceased as she stood, transfixed, her hands frozen in the end of the task of securing the baldric, her eyes riveted to the sinuous motion of exercise.

All sense of time fled from her, until finally Ástríðr’s swift, but controlled, exertions came to a close. She stood, looked at Katsumi, and chuckled. “Not all of us have the ability to magically amp up our strength, babe. I have to do this manually.”

These words cracked a whip across her mind, and she coloured and turned, staring resolutely at the wall. “O...of course. I was simply surprised to see you doing it in such a state of undress.”

“Come on, babe, don’t prude up on me, now. If I did it clothed, all I’d have is a set of sweaty, icky clothes I’d have to change out of, and frankly, I don’t see much point in protecting  _ my modesty  _ from someone who has not only seen everything, but also had me  _ inside of them, _ ” Ástríðr explained as she jumped to catch on a rafter, beginning to execute a series of rapid-fire one-arm pull-ups.

“You’re correct. It was just a shock, that’s all…!” Katsumi yelped, Ástríðr’s grunts of exertion winding the agonizing tension in her core ever-tighter. Eventually, it became intolerable, and Katsumi walked with purpose to the door, her back to her exercising…lover? She clutched a closed fist against her chest, to still the rushing of blood scorching its way through her veins. “What would you like me to get you from your room with regards to garments?”

“No need. I’m going to bathe before dressing anyways, so I’ll get them myself. Why? You have somewhere to go?”

_ Anywhere but here… I have not the strength to remain in this room… _

A pulse sounded in her ears—now that she thought about it,  _ did  _ she have ears, or did she hear through some other means?—and she opened her hand slowly, to see that she had clasped her fingers around the orb from the previous day. Looking into its depths did not calm her, but it allowed her to briefly push aside the fire in her skin and speak clearly. “I do, in fact. I should like to speak with Madam Tsuyu and see if there is aught that I can do to make myself useful to the bordello. I have no income at the moment, and so it would be the least I could do. I shall see you on the ground floor when you are finished.”

She stepped through the threshold and closed the door behind her, nearly collapsing against it as she exhaled all at once, her breath shuddering and hesitant. It was as though something dormant had awakened quite abruptly within her the night before, and it was so unlike anything with which she had previously grappled that she hadn’t the slightest idea of how to control it, or herself while in its unyielding grip. Like shackles of iron, it held her mind in thrall whenever she relaxed for even a moment, lurking seductively as a shadow just beyond the light of her awareness, lengthening and creeping and stealing in whenever she looked away for even a moment, if even to beat back yet another tendril lurking from the fluid darkness of desire that surrounded her, in which she could easily drown.

Quickly she pushed forth from her door, remembering to slip the orb into her satchel before it slipped her mind entirely, and started walking down the corridor, and to the first floor. It was firmly midmorning, and the others were already awake. Sonja’s gaze upon her was wary, as though she was watching an animal that was for now tamed, but could easily bite the hand that fed it should a moment of negligence allow it to slip its tether. A part of her rose in indignant irritation, but the more practical majority of her conceded that in light of the Beast’s rousing the day before, it was only expected for Sonja to keep her under more diligent scrutiny until she was reasonably certain that it would not slip from her again, and perhaps even put in mortal danger all she held dear. And so Katsumi bore it.

Kagura looked at her with a respect in full bloom, a warrior’s respect. There was an edge of murder in her gaze, but far from malice or enmity, this sprung from an acknowledgement of her strength. It was base and bestial, but simple and uncomplicated, and it brought a sort of reassurance to it. She knew where they stood—that someday, one of them would kill the other, and thus prove forever which of them was stronger, but until that day when only one of them could walk their path, they would walk it together. Kyomi had a similar emotion in her gaze, though only at its core; hers was a more cognitive assessment, a recognition of her abilities and their utility.

She caught Sonja begin to stiffen as she drew close, and discreetly changed course, allowing the paladin to relax. If this was going to affect their cohesion as a unit, this power she had that came only when she called, that called to her only when the alternative was death, that would be a problem, and she would take steps to rectify it; absent that, she was content to let her need for caution fade with time, and was not inclined to press the issue unless it proved an absolute necessity.

This in mind, she moved over to the bar, sitting on a stool directly in front of Tandem as he meticulously dried out a metal tankard. His ruby red eyes flickered up to her, his marble skin showing none of the sallow frailty that Kyomi’s complexion put on display, frailty she thought typical of their condition, now that she sat and thought about it. “See anything interesting?”

“Since you asked, you look a lot healthier than Kyomi,” Katsumi replied. “Your complexion, at least. Appearances can be deceiving and all of that, but…she looks like she’d be toppled by a stiff wind.  _ You  _ look like you’re carved from living stone.”

“Thank you…?” Tandem cocked a single bone-white brow into a quizzical expression.

“It wasn’t meant as a compliment,” Katsumi said, shaking her head. “Of the two of you, Kyomi looks more like what I would expect the typical albino to look like, to a degree that would be comical if I didn’t find large blanks in information disquieting. So, what’s your secret, and why are you not sharing it with Kyomi?”

She could feel Kyomi’s eyes boring twin holes into her back, even at such a distance, but she ignored it; and before the summoner could rise to give voice to her protest, Tandem sighed and shook his head. “It’s a story and a half. Not one I’m inclined to tell you while I’m polishing tankards, that’s for certain. Suffice it to say that Kyomi is employing the method by which I spent a large portion of my life managing my condition. I found an alternative method, but it’s not one that would work for her. Does that satisfy your curiosity, girl?”

“Sufficiently so that I shall refrain from prying further,” Katsumi shot back. She then looked around for her benefactor, and, finding her absent, presented her next query. “Where is Madam Tsuyu?”

“Bathing,” Tandem said, his tone terse and long-suffering, but still fond. “How’s my daughter?”

“...!” Katsumi’s words stuck in her throat, the image of Ástríðr in the midst of a morning routine to which she had never before been privy surging forth of its own accord and seizing her lungs in what she was certain was something akin to rigor mortis.

Tandem barked a short, mirthless laugh. “Oh, gods, it’s written all across your face. How Tsuyu caught it as early as she did is beyond me still, but at least I now know she didn’t cheat. Which kind of makes it smart more, if I’m being completely honest.”

“W-when I left her, she seemed healthy…and ambulatory…” Katsumi forced out, even as her throat constricted painfully around the words.

“I’m sure,” Tandem said with a wry twist to his tone. “The girl once had a log lobbed at her. Whole fucking trunk, old growth. She caught it and threw it back. She’s plenty durable. But I take from the intensity of your reaction that last night went well?”

“...I suppose that’s one way to look at it…” Katsumi sighed.

“I know it doesn’t sound like it, but that’s probably a rave review regarding her,” Tandem chuckled. “She does nothing by half-measures, that one.”

“Most assuredly,” Katsumi agreed. “I just… I’m…lost.”

Tandem studied her, and then sighed. “I’m no good at stuff like this. Tsuyu’s the one who handles complicated shit like this—I usually can’t make heads or tails out of it… She basically had to beat me over the head with the idea that we could be a couple before I finally took the hint and asked her to marry me. But, in the probably vain hope that some of her savvy regarding these situations has managed to rub off on me over the years, and my idiot brain hasn’t managed to forget it, I guess the best advice I can give is to be open about your feelings with her. If you guys are going to be joined at the hip, the right hand absolutely needs to know what the left is doing. Am I making sense?”

Katsumi exhaled in a huff. “I suppose. I just…I feel like I’m drowning…”

Tandem’s eyes went wide as he looked over Katsumi’s shoulder. “Hold that thought, kid. Tsuyu just came down the stairs, and she’s got that look in her eye.”

Katsumi nodded heavily and turned around to look at the madam as her geta hit the floor with a slight clack that silenced the other three at the table in the midst of their coffea drinking, drawing what gazes were not already upon her.

Madam Tsuyu clapped her hands together and exhaled. “Well. It’s good to see everyone up and lively! I’ve given some thought to what was proposed yesterday morning, and I think it’s a brilliant idea. A fifth member means that you’ll be safe enough for me to be comfortable with you all taking low-level marks. So, once Ástríðr is finished with her bathing, I’d like you all to head over to the Guild and pick out an appropriate quest. Since this will be your first true endeavour together as a party, I must insist that you take a one-star quest, two-star  _ at the absolute maximum.  _ We’re open tonight, and it would be beyond troublesome to replace any of you on short notice should you receive significant injury, so rest assured,  _ I mean it.  _ Nothing greater than two stars.  _ Are you listening, Kagura? _ ”

“Yeah, yeah,” the vii sister sighed with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’d be stupid to risk death this early—even  _ I’m  _ not that reckless.”

Madam Tsuyu’s jade gaze, hard and sharp as the jewel itself, softened. “Very good. I would hate to have to explain to Yuriya why you were indisposed when she gets here.”

Kagura made an odd motion, as much a cringing flinch as it was a perking up, her large leporine ears standing at strict attention. “ _ She’s  _ coming?!”

Tsuyu nodded with a fond, but unmistakably feline close-lipped smile. “My dear sister-in-law sent word ahead. She should be arriving late tonight, just after closing. She mentioned you by name, and asked after your going rate.”

“And what did you tell her?!” The excited, nervous tension in Kagura’s voice trilled through the room, like the beating of a hummingbird’s heart.

“That you would be happy to receive her, and that your usual fee would be waived. Far be it from me to keep you two apart for something as minor as a fistful of gil,” Madam Tsuyu replied, slipping her kiseru into her mouth as she approached the bar, beelining for the tray of kizami packets Tandem slipped onto the edge of the varnished wooden surface. She tore a packet open with a grateful look to her husband, who responded with a nod as the ball of stringy, amphetamine-laced tobacco was placed into the small bowl, a snap of the woman’s fingers sparking onto it and setting it alight. Taking a deep breath, she held it, and exhaled the fumes steadily through finely-pursed lips, a seemingly involuntary pleased hum surging through her. “Kyomi, I’m afraid Sophia is still stuck at the conference in Rosenfaire. Her missive mentioned that Emberlet’s representative was pushing aggressively for a greater trade share, and that needs to be dealt with before she can come see you. She mentioned an extended timeline of anywhere from three days to a fortnight, depending on how long it takes to smooth out all the inevitable ruffled feathers.”

Kyomi did not share Kagura’s tangible enthusiasm, her mask of composure firmly in place as she nodded soberly.

Katsumi turned a perplexed gaze to Tandem. Obviously these two, Yuriya and Sophia, were important to the vii twins, and one was Tandem’s sister, but that was all she knew. Madam Tsuyu caught her look, and, after attracting her gaze, mouthed, ‘Later.’

The drahn nodded, somewhat disquieted, but for the moment mollified.

“Katsumi! Do you think you can do that berserker thing again when Yuriya gets here?!” Kagura asked excitedly.

Katsumi stiffened, and Kagura wilted at the look Madam Tsuyu shot her. “...Nevermind.”

“Please excuse my sister,” Kyomi sighed. “She speaks without thinking sometimes, particularly when Yuriya the Sword Saint is involved.”

“My sister is not to be trifled with, Kagura. Her lenience for you is greater than it is for most people, but it is by no means unlimited. I would advise you to exercise quite a bit more caution in dealing with her than you have in the past,” Tandem chided. “Yuriya has no compunctions about leaving you limbless if she thinks that your autonomy is going to get you killed. You should know this by now.”

Kagura slumped further in her chair, muttering dejectedly.

“Oh, come off it,” Kyomi snapped. “You finally get to go kill things today, for fuck’s sake!”

“My sword, though…”

“ _ You have a spare, you idiot! _ ”

Kagura straightened, righting herself in her chair at that admonition, pouting and looking away. “It’s not the same…”

“They’re  _ literally  _ the same quality and type of sword!”

“It’s not the same!”

Kyomi threw up her hands. “Fuck it. I tried! You all saw!”

“Don’t you need to bathe, Katsumi?” Sonja asked, speaking up for the first time all morning. “I understand you bedded my sister. That tends to not be an especially lax affair.”

Katsumi shrugged, the pink still appearing in her cheeks, but the note of accusation and distrust in Sonja’s voice prevented a full flush to bloom across her face. “I don’t think so? I haven’t perspired, if that’s your implication.”

“Drahn bodies don’t perspire,” Tandem remarked. “They regulate like reptiles, and the dragons’ blood that flows through them runs toward the hotter side as a general matter, so her need to keep her temperature down is not as great as it would be for any of the other races, save for maybe a galdjent. The trade-off is that they need to eat meat in large quantities to keep themselves going, though. Speaking of which, how was the food we sent Ástríðr up to you with last night?”

Tandem’s attention turned towards her, and Katsumi froze. “Food?”

“...You  _ did  _ eat, yes?” Tandem prompted, eyes widening.

“I…” Katsumi paused. “I forgot to.”

“So you’re telling me this is  _ day three  _ that you have gone without food?!”

“Day four, actually,” Katsumi noted absently. “Is that an issue?” 

“Swords give me strength…” Tandem muttered.

“It  _ is  _ a problem, but not one without a solution. Katsumi, you need to remember to eat when you can. By the colour of your scales I can tell that you don’t feel hunger, so you have to keep in mind that just because you don’t feel hunger, that doesn’t mean that your body doesn’t need to be fed. The fact that you haven’t collapsed yet is nothing short of astounding,” chided Madam Tsuyu. She tapped her kiseru in the free air for a few moments in thought, before looking to Tandem. “We have the leftovers of last night’s boar, yes? Sealed and all that?”

Tandem nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Bring her a double serving before they go. It’s important that she remains well-fed more so than others, especially with…” She gave her husband a meaningful look.

“On it,” he replied, moving smoothly into the kitchen behind the bar.

“Now, when you get back tonight, Kagura especially, I want you pristine and presentable for Yuriya. You know what she likes,” Madam Tsuyu directed.

Kagura nodded eagerly, her mood still high. It was a bit of a shock to see this other side to her, the Yakuza-affiliated sukeban persona that Kagura usually put forth completely at odds with this…girl, as energized as a puppy and appearing moments from preening obsessively to look her best.

“Kyomi. I know you feel left out, so if Sophia isn’t done in one week, I’m giving you leave to take off from work and join her in Rosenfaire. It’s clear to me that neither of you does particularly well when separated from the other, and I need you at your best when you come to work, especially with regards to the niche you fill.”

Kyomi’s eyes went wide in shock, and then she grinned, before pressing it down into a small smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Madam Tsuyu smiled back. “Just know that this possible absence will be made known to all patrons, so in the next few days, you may have to deal with a glut of roaders.”

Kyomi’s excitement didn’t dim, her pinkish eyes sparking with euphoric anticipation.

“‘Roaders’?” asked Katsumi, perplexed, as her head tilted to the side. “I’m unfamiliar with the term.”

“I got this one,” announced Kagura. “Well, when the jon’s about to be gone for a while, maybe for travel, maybe for war, maybe they won’t come back and die, they tend to book one last session ‘for the road,’ so we call them ‘roaders.’”

“Oh,” said Katsumi, suddenly feeling very silly for not immediately making the connection given context.

A few moments of silence settled, and then two things happened in quick succession.

First, Tandem came out with a plate piled high with slabs of boar meat, into which Katsumi began to dig, each bite dispelling a pervasive feeling of ickiness she had not been consciously aware of; then, Ástríðr walked down the stairs into the tavern area, fully clothed and stretching her long, lean, strong limbs, catching Katsumi’s eye with a predatory smoulder and giving a saucy wink that ignited the drahn’s pale face and caused her to start choking on the bite she had just been one third of the way through swallowing.

She coughed violently, her body shuddering with the effort of dislodging the rather large morsel, at which point she, resolutely looking away from her bedmate of the previous night, tried again, chewing and swallowing that piece of meat before going back and chipping away at her feeling of discomfort that wasn’t at all what she remembered hunger feeling like, but present all the same, and warranting being accounted for with regard to future situations.

Ástríðr’s eyes did not bore into her back as she might have expected, and for that, she was grateful; but her very presence was  _ heavy.  _ It was like putting her back to the sun in a desert, with nothing between its passive, scorching radiance, and her all-too-delicate flesh. Between the simmer in her blood and the intensity of Ástríðr’s aura, her skin seemed to be frying to a crisp as she fervently attempted to keep her eyes forward as she shoveled food into her mouth in a manner that resembled a marionette’s mimicry to an increasingly uncanny extent.

It was torture. It was torment. It was dying of thirst and being dragged to an unending supply of cool, fresh water and having to resist drinking, being told that  _ she must not drink. _ Her very being began vibrating with tension at some point in the process of eating, so much so that the last few cuts of meat, flavourful, juicy and wonderfully seasoned, began to miss her mouth, the trembling of her hands throwing off the precision of her movements.

Eventually, she finally got the last of it down, muttering her thanks to Tandem, and, by this point unable to take notice of the peculiar feeling that came with sating that particular need, she plastered a gentle smile on her face as she turned to regard Ástríðr as she interacted with the others, talking to Kagura and Kyomi with a friendly grin searing the room in vibrant brilliance, though Katsumi noted how her eyes flickered over to Sonja every so often.

Above all else, Katsumi wished for the physical distance between herself and Ástríðr to evaporate. She wished to curl herself around Ástríðr’s sculpted body, to constrict herself gently around her muscular form as a serpent might, and then to never be separated, but…she found she couldn’t. Ástríðr had her friends and her sister, whom she clearly valued immensely, and from whom she would no doubt be unwilling to part. This was  _ their  _ time, and so she would not,  _ could not _ intrude in this moment where they simply got to be friends. 

The thought was like a dozen red-hot knives plunging into her body repeatedly. Her body stilled, even as her mind recoiled in abject shock; Katsumi had always been an outsider, but this was the first time that realisation  _ hurt. _

And then, of course, the inability to force herself to go to Ástríðr, and her knowledge of the necessity of that prevention, did nothing to calm the urge within her, the yawning ache that caused her significant disquiet. It surged, consumed,  _ devoured,  _ and yet no matter how it howled, how it scraped at the walls of her mind like a rabid, feral beast, she could not have moved even had she wanted to. Her body would not obey her commands, and for that, she was at once immensely grateful and tied to a post as the flames caught and raced along her flesh, the heat causing her skin to boil and pop and sear as she was restrained, powerless to escape, her every waking moment ablaze with refulgent despair.

And then Ástríðr glanced at her and winked again.

Katsumi whirled right back around, resolutely. Distantly, she was thankful that her race actually  _ did  _ lack ears, because she was aware that even with her long hair, her ears would have blazed red with the full-body flush that, like a sea serpent made of fire, unhinged its jaw and swallowed her whole. It was a strange feeling, to have her mind go blank while her thoughts raced, to have everything be flitting through her too quickly for her to feel grounded while she was a white void at the same time. The paradoxical contrast was unnerving, but in view of how unnerved and tense she already was, the feeling didn’t especially stand out as remarkable.

She jumped nearly out of her skin with a wordless, almost animal ‘yip!’ as a pair of arms wrapped around her, their scars and musculature marking them as Ástríðr’s. Her lover’s head nestled next to hers, dragging her tongue up Katsumi’s cheek and leaving a line of…‘heat’ was far too weak a word…where her wet, prehensile muscle touched the drahn’s livid skin. “What’cha up to, babe?”

“...!”

“Right, stupid question. Why don’t you come over and sit with the rest of us? We’ve got room…” Ástríðr asked.

Katsumi was just about to wordlessly nod and agree, but her mouth moved independent of her. “I don’t want to make Sonja uncomfortable.”

Ástríðr stiffened slightly against Katsumi. “Come again?”

Ástríðr’s voice was low and dangerous, almost hissing with venom. Katsumi was  _ certain  _ she had somehow made Ástríðr angry, that Ástríðr hated her again, that she was all alone, that she might not  _ survive  _ it this time…but her words came, once more unbidden. “She’s been watching me all morning, like I might snap at her. In light of what happened yesterday, it’s a perfectly sensible concern—she doesn’t know what it was like, she only saw that I nearly killed her and Kagura, so she’s being cautious—so I chose not to press the issue. I’m sorry…”

Ástríðr inhaled sharply, once more like a snake’s hiss, and Katsumi cringed on reflex, but then Ástríðr, miraculously and methodically, began to relax. “I’m not mad at  _ you,  _ babe. Give me a second, then  _ I want you at that table next to me.  _ Okay?”

Katsumi nodded, and this time, thankfully, her mouth and mind were in accord on the importance of remaining silent.

“ _ Good. _ ” Ástríðr pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and then moved away, her arms sliding off of Katsumi’s body even as her fingers lingered, dragging across her chest and leaving streamers of scorching sensitivity along their path. “I’ll just be a moment, don’t worry.”

Katsumi counted the retreating, slow footfalls, struck by how loping Ástríðr’s stride sounded, and then counted out ten seconds. Once she was contemplating continuing onto eleven if she was going to wait this long after ten, she turned around and saw Ástríðr staring at her, her posture languid and a space open right next to her, close enough that their hips would be flush together. Swallowing a hard mouthful of saliva and taking a deep breath, she stood and walked across the tavern floor, sitting gingerly where Ástríðr had indicated, a squeak tearing free from her as Ástríðr’s arm immediately settled around her shoulder, pulling her even closer than even the seats would have implied. So focused on her breathing and maintaining what little remained of her composure was she in that moment that she almost missed when Ástríðr began speaking.

“A little bird of mine told me that there’s a posting in the Adventurer’s Guild. It’s a two-star ranking, and while I understand and to an extent agree with Mom, Katsumi had a point yesterday. We need to make  _ some  _ sort of splash if we’re ever going to be able to gain ground. The job is a relatively simple one, to clear out some monsters in the mithril mines. They’re nearby, maybe a few hours’ walk outside of city limits. Depending on complications, we can be there, have the job done, and be back within the day.”

“What’s the payout?” Kyomi asked.

“...Ten thousand gil.”

“For a two-star?!” Kyomi exclaimed. “That’s absurd! There’s gotta be more to this if they’re willing to fork that much cash over!”

“From what my bird told me, discretion is the motive here. The mine is only a few ‘turns old, and the government doesn’t want this to get to the ears of the conference in Rosenfaire. Emberlet and Bantamoor would be ripping each other apart to get the first crack at reaming Maelnaulde for every ingot they could get were the news of the mithril mine to go public, so they can’t bring the Crown Knights into it, and nor can they be entirely overt with what’s happening. The sooner the better, though, so the ten thousand’s a base price. The bonus will increase with haste, and given the mark went up today…

“Anyway, that’s what my bird is telling me. My  _ gut,  _ however, is wholeheartedly agreeing with you, Kyomi. There’s something there that they’re not telling us about.”

“What kinda monsters we gotta kill?” asked Kagura.

Ástríðr shrugged. “Goblins. Qiqirn. Kobolds. Gremlins. Cave shit. The types one would expect when going in to clear a mine. But that’s only what they’re telling us; we’re likely to run into much nastier foes with that kind of payout. So we should be prepared for that, keep on our toes, et cetera.”

“What’s the procedure for something like this?” Sonja took that moment to ask her own question, even as Kagura nodded in satisfaction and leaned back in her chair.

“Already done. My little bird brought me the missive, going through all the bureaucratic nonsense to get us registered to have taken this job. Having said that, I don’t doubt we might have some competition getting there. Information does not travel by courier faster than avaricious eyes can see, after all. Fortunately, we have a way there. The girl who runs the local raptor rental owes me a fair few favours, so we’re getting five of her birds to get us to our destination today.”

“Raptors…?” Katsumi asked, nonplussed.

“You don’t know what raptors are?” Kyomi asked skeptically.

“Not in this context,” Katsumi replied. “Where I’m from…in the Far East…the word refers to a type of bird that’s domesticated as a hunting and scouting aid. What they have to do with transportation is beyond me.”

“Huh. Never knew that. Though I suppose you’ve spent more time in our shared homeland than my sister and I. We were spirited away before we could remember. My earliest memories were in the streets of Ravana, so…” Kyomi shrugged.

Katsumi had no idea what Ravana was, but she felt like revealing  _ that _ was a bad idea, so she held her tongue on the subject for the moment.

“Don’t worry, babe. You’ll see how we get around in this side of the world soon enough.” 

* * *

“It’s…a bird. A literal bird. But bipedal…” The words fell from Katsumi’s mouth as her wide purple eyes took in the beasts of burden they were renting for the day, free of charge. “Huh. Somehow I was expecting… I don’t exactly know what I was expecting, actually.”

“What do they use where you come from to get around?” asked Ástríðr.

“Horses,” Katsumi replied. “Where I grew up, we were near the province with the best horses in the land. They weren’t especially large compared to foreign breeds, but they were sturdy, loyal, and reliable.”

“Well, horses aren’t common in these lands, but raptors are. So they were domesticated,” said Kyomi.

“Mm…” Katsumi hummed idly as she looked at the ‘raptors,’ noting that now she had a name for the strange bird emblazoned on the international currency, the ‘gil.’ They were large, seemingly favoured bright yellow plumage, and bipedal, as noted. Their beaks were large, wickedly sharp, and seemingly very sturdy, and in their beady black eyes she noted the obvious capacity for abrupt and brutal murder.

“They’re almost exclusively carnivorous, though they vastly prefer the flesh of monsters to those of the sentient races,” the woman they were taking the animals from for the day explained helpfully. Katsumi remembered the woman had introduced herself as Thérèse, and that she was apparently a bastard daughter of a minor noble house that specialised in the breeding of domesticated raptors, hence the how and why of her coming to work here. The nature of the favours she owed Ástríðr was unknown to Katsumi still, but she realized before the question even formed in her vocal chords that that was not her business to know. She had to remember to respect Ástríðr’s space, to let her have her secrets, to rein in her desire to know everything about the she-elf with whom she was currently entangled. “The hunter-killer aspect is still there, though, so instead of providing them with food, we let them loose to hunt down their own. They’re not exactly the most migratory, so these ones always return to the place of origin. The ones for personal use in long-distance travel are trained rather differently and are much more expensive as a result.”

Katsumi could only admire how the woman, a hume, spoke on the subject even as she scurried around the enclosure, seeing to the preparedness and tack of each of the five mounts they had selected. That spoke to a remarkable ability to multitask.

The drahn got three thoughts into evaluating the hume’s appearance and analysing her reactions to Ástríðr to gauge if they themselves had any romantic feelings there, before she clamped down on her own mind ruthlessly. The girl was very pretty, very delicate, and if Ástríðr was entangled with her as well to any extent, that was  _ perfectly fine,  _ as clearly the hume was there first, and it wasn’t as though Katsumi would find sharing the elf  _ impossible. _ Or at the very least, not as impossible as she was beginning to suspect separation might be. And really, it was  _ beyond _ conceited to think that Ástríðr felt as strongly about Katsumi as Katsumi did about her. Katsumi was naive and inexperienced when it came to actual romantic attachment or sexual attraction, and Ástríðr had no such issues. She had to continue to push herself to keep those runaway thoughts in their place if she could not eliminate them entirely.

“All done!”

Katsumi shook herself from her thoughts as Thérèse the hume woman stood before them, hands on her hips, brilliant red hair shot through with streaks of white that were not from aging, her lime-green eyes and freckled, youthful face attesting to that. Her hands were on her hips as she looked at them, her sturdy brown tunic and loose trousers fluttering in the gusts of wind that blew through Maelnaulde. “Treat my boys right and they’ll treat you right. If you don’t,  _ I’ll know.  _ Got it?”

Ástríðr chuckled. “Message received, Thérèse. Take care of yourself, alright?”

“You, too. A word with your girlfriend, though, before you all are on your merry way?”

Ástríðr’s good humour vanished, and Katsumi made a note to never cause a delay if she wished to avoid upsetting her lover. A muscle in the elf’s jaw ticked for a pregnant moment before she sharply nodded her assent. “Make it quick.”

Thérèse laughed in response, and Katsumi saw how the tension increased in Ástríðr’s body, begging the question of whether Thérèse was entirely ignorant of the danger she was courting, or if the hume was somehow immune to it. The woman waved Katsumi over as Ástríðr directed the others to mount up, and Katsumi did as she was bid with one last look at Ástríðr, growing increasingly worried about the twitching tendon near her neck.

Thérèse guffawed. “Relax, kid. I’m not going to garrotte you. I just wanted to have a quick talk. And it  _ will  _ be quick; I don’t fancy trying to build back my business after one of Ástríðr’s  _ legendary  _ tantrums.”

“What did you want, then?” asked Katsumi, doing her best to look and sound cordial.

“I’m not fucking Ástríðr. Never have, never will. She’s helped me look after my little brother and keep him safe through his noble antics over and over again, so I consider her a firm acquaintance,  _ maybe  _ a friend on a good day. But I know her well enough to say I want no part of her. She’s all yours,” said Thérèse.

Katsumi’s jaw dropped, before something like bile that tasted more like blood lurched forth in her mouth. “And what gave you the impression I was even curious?!”

“Your eyes are an open book, kid. Until recently the pages have been uniformly blank, I’m guessing, so you haven’t figured out how to guard them just yet. But everything you’re thinking is blasted from them, if you know how to look. So rest assured, I’m not trying to cut into your time with your girlfriend. And, judging by how she’s near to frothing at the mouth over there…she wouldn’t allow me even if I was so inclined. Now cart yourself back over there, please. I have enough expenses without having to replace load-bearing beams, and the one she’s closest to is starting to splinter.” Thérèse shooed her away, and Katsumi turned, perplexed, and began to walk back. “Oh, and kid? One last thing.”

Katsumi looked to the hume over her shoulder, stopping in her tracks.

“Learn to guard those eyes. They’ll be the death of you otherwise.”

“Noted,” Katsumi replied.

Thérèse stared at her with an unusual intensity. “I’m serious. I might not be Ástríðr’s friend, but that doesn’t mean I want to see her hurt.”

Katsumi nodded this time, suddenly less than inclined to deliver a glib quip or scathing response to the admonition that rang out like a death knell.

Unsettled, she put her face forward and walked towards the remaining raptor waiting for her. She had actually never ridden an animal before, ever, but she was aware of the basics of mounting procedure and was confident in her ability to fake experience in a pinch. One foot went into the nearest stirrup, and then she stood on it for the moment it took to swing her leg around the animal’s hindquarters, slipping into the other stirrup and settling with the saddle padding the creature’s back. She took hold of the reins on its bitless bridle, configured so as to allow the bird to open his mouth, hunt and eat, and then  _ gently _ squeezed the beast’s sides with her knees, spurring him forward, and praying to whatever god was passing by and might overhear that the mechanics of riding the raptor were similar to the principles of horse-riding she had assumably read about, given that the knowledge of how to do so was in her head sharing space with the knowledge of having never practised it.

“CU-AY!” exclaimed the raptor, moving forward slowly to take his place with his fellows as Katsumi let out a small sigh of relief.

Ástríðr immediately relaxed as Katsumi drew level with her, her expression changing entirely, assumably now that they were back on schedule. Their de-facto leader for this quest took point, leading them out of the gates of Maelnaulde and into parts unknown, towards the mithril mine they were to purge of all interloping life.

At the very edge of Katsumi’s awareness, the blade on her back, the kriegsmesser called “Deatheater,” bathed itself in fell forces, and  _ seethed. _


	6. Delving Too Deep

Ástríðr’s estimate was correct; reaching the mouth of the mine was the work of only a few hours of travel, less than three, and by just past midday, the adventurers dismounted their raptors and looked into the cave’s yawning maw. The depths of it extended past their ability to see, and they knew that no passers-by would think this was, in fact, a mine, the existence of which was a closely-guarded secret of the state. Frankly, if not for her instincts, Katsumi herself would harbour immense doubts about having come to the correct place; yet, the aura of dread was strong in her nose, and the Beast writhed, rousing itself from slumber in preparation to be called upon should things go poorly.

Sonja was the first to move in, being the most capable of taking punishment with not only the highest HP but also the highest Defence values of the five of them. Her spatha slid free of its scabbard, accompanied by Ástríðr’s xiphos, Kagura’s tachi, Kyomi’s quill and grimoire, and finally Deatheater, the blade finally tasting open air as it frothed with twisting shadows and dancing darkness.

A spectral chill swept forth through all five of them, the biting cold soul-deep. None of them hesitated for so much as an instant in their forward advance, though Katsumi’s eyes caught Sonja’s grip adjusting on her shield and sword, with the slight tensing of her limbs. The drahn supposed that perhaps Sonja was moving forth believing that unknown danger lay before, and a wildcard danger followed behind her, in which case, Katsumi supposed she had reason. In light of that, the dark knight resolved to keep an eye on the paladin, to step in if she hesitated for a fatal moment in battle, was just a hair too slow in reacting.

The Beast’s ebon scales slipped along her insides, and infernal eyes seared into the back of her own, seeing the world as she did. Its dread wings flexed and began to stretch, and she swore they would have encompassed the entire cave were they physical things sprouting from her back, but at the same time, the unfurling revealed a swirling pit of death and pain that she remembered tapping into once before, three or four days or an eternity ago. 

_ …Listen… _

_ …Can you hear it? _

_ This is our power. _

The writhing mass that was the Darkside surged forth, and she surrendered to its grasp; and in her surrender, as she felt herself approaching the brink of annihilation, she  _ seized  _ it, clutched it in a strangle-hold about its proverbial neck. She remembered what Frey had told her.  _ The Darkside is of no greater magnitude than you yourself…  _ It came when she called, and like an eager hound, would heel or bay at her command, if she only kept her wits about her long enough to command it.

Deatheater surged to greet her, now that she could feel its presence and hear its cries in her mind. The keening resolved itself into  _ something. _ It wasn’t much, not yet, a spark on an endless mound of kindling, not yet caught, but moments away from doing so.

_ Mankind has always feared the dark, and so they learned to chase it away with fire. _

_ But we know differently, don’t we, my Master? _

Deatheater’s words and thoughts were different from the Beast’s. While the Beast’s cries resounded into the depths of her mind, these were whispery suggestions, sentences branded and still flaming on the backs of her eyelids.

The world flickered for a moment, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw an indistinct figure cloaked in black, shifting and nebulous, not fully there, but resolving further and further.

_ Fire burns. It consumes. When the time comes, we shall feed all that which stands between us and our horizon into the flame, and when all that is purged, we shall embrace the Void. It shall yawn wide, and we shall drink deep of its power, for the Void is the origin and end of all things, and through it, all things are possible. _

_ My strength is thine, and the strength of thine arm shall put truth to my blade. Flesh shall tear, blood shall weep. The chains and shackles that bind us shall be undone, the laws that crafted them unmade. _

_ Be ready. _

That incredibly cryptic series of events aside, Katsumi was at last allowed to once more focus on the world around her, the Beast, the Darkside, and Deatheater all present at the back of her mind, content to sit, observe, and obey. Darkness and shadow surrounded them, and Katsumi found that though she was aware of the dark, it did not obscure her vision. She could see just fine through the cloak of shadows that enshrouded the cave’s interior, more easily, even, than she could in bright light. The hues were softer here, which perplexed her, as there ought not to be hues, rationally speaking. She tossed the question in a bin she had just created called “Magic”, and moved on.

“Fuckin’ hate walking in the dark like this…” Kagura muttered.

And suddenly Katsumi was once more aware of who she was with. “Can you not see in the dark, then?”

The vii shook her head. “Blinder than a man without eyes, really. Me and Kyomi both. We have sharp noses and great hearing, and Kyomi has a very strong sense of the ambient magic of an area, but the elves have this nifty little thing called infravision, so they can see just fine in this blackness, and we kinda can’t. It’s unnerving.”

“Then maybe we should light a torch…”

“Not on my account,” Kagura said. “We’re trying to be discreet here, remember? All sneaky-like. It’d kinda defeat the purpose of this if every monster in this whole mine saw us light up like we’re begging to be ambushed and devoured. Kyomi’s got a spell that’ll let us see in the dark when we run into mobs, but until then, we’ve just gotta pay attention to our other senses.”

Katsumi nodded, realised Kagura couldn’t have seen her do so, felt silly for a moment, and then replied, “Noted.”

She walked ahead of the vii, drawing closer to Ástríðr and Sonja in an attempt to be closer to the former; yet, with every step she took closer to Sonja, she could see the tension in Sonja’s body ratcheting up higher and higher. Dismayed, but secure in the belief that it wouldn’t really matter in battle so long as she was within a certain proximity, she slowed and distanced herself, watching the tension evaporate little by little with each span of distance that she placed between herself and the paladin. This perplexed her—could the paladin sense her presence? That could well be it, and did in fact make sense, after a fashion.

Ástríðr looked around as she conversed quietly with Sonja, but with the sudden spiking and subsiding of tension in her twin’s body, her low remarks took on a quizzical tone. She looked back at Katsumi, then back to Sonja, her own body suddenly wound tight enough that Katsumi feared she might fray and snap. A few muttered words later, and Sonja nodded hesitantly, leaving Ástríðr to turn about and wave her forward, a coy smirk on her face that was completely at odds with the rage radiating off of her moments ago. Ordinarily it’d be worrisome, but Katsumi just assumed that the she-elf was putting on a mask so as not to make her think she was angry at  _ her.  _ An…uncommonly, uncannily accurate…mask. Still, she knew better than to disobey the nonverbal command, especially since it brought her into doing what she wished to do and would have already have done if not for Sonja’s painfully obvious discomfort.

She could see Sonja attempting to hold herself in a state of langour, though the building tension was still obvious to her eyes as she drew closer; still, she would not think to preserve Sonja’s comfort if it meant defying Ástríðr’s or— _ request.  _ Maintaining herself as someone who wasn’t troublesome to the bard was more important by far than indulging Sonja’s unnecessary wariness of her, especially as it seemed as though it was not going to subside before affecting team cohesion and synergy, and so she was thusly killing two birds with a single precisely aimed and carefully lobbed stone.

That was, until several long, pregnant moments passed, marked only by their complete silence save for the footfalls of the company as they went deeper and deeper into the earth. Soon enough, the darkness yawned wide in all directions, and though Katsumi herself did not find the shadows obfuscating, she  _ did  _ find the fact that Ástríðr had not made a motion to address any matter with her yet somewhat troubling. To someone who had never before found silence of any sort in any way unwelcome, the feeling of anxiety that roused as the moments passed without a remark was extraordinarily peculiar. She had never cared to be spoken to before, never really cared about what anyone was going to say. If she needed to, she acted upon it, but there was always this disconnection within her, a stillness, a lake frozen solid, dense and strong enough to turn aside the blow of a pickaxe. Now the lake had thawed, and all sorts of unfamiliar currents ripped through it, rending the peace that had come with the deadness of moments prior, and the anxiety was winding tighter and tighter and oh why did she call her forth? What did she want to speak of? Why was she not already speaking of it?!

Coming across a creature, a grinning black furry creature with luminous sulphur-yellow eyes and rows of sharp teeth, sprouts of thick, stiff fur that looked like rabbit ears sprouting from the sphere that not only constituted its head, but its body as well, sprouting small, spindly arms and legs, was almost a relief in and of itself. She struck forth, blade wreathed in dark fire before the others, Sonja too tense and Ástríðr too  _ distracted  _ somehow, Kagura and Kyomi having no way of discerning the exact location of the creature at this distance, and with a single slice of Deatheater, silent but for the rapid incoherent jabbering of the creature and the unheard scream the sword made as its blade rent the air with speed and force, the creature separated into two halves, before erupting with blood.

The surge of life force, called ‘experience’ as a term of art, was apparent when she knew that it was happening. It was a feeling quite unlike any other, a sort of simultaneous surging, withdrawing, swallowing, and vomiting, all just a hair more than the psychosomatic recollection of any of those sensations.

“A gremlin,” stated Ástríðr as she drew close. “Well, that’s the first one. We’ll have to go deeper if we’re going to find the real quarry.”

“Alright! This is where the fun begins!” Kagura replied, not yelling, but her impassioned jubilation was readily apparent all the same.

Kyomi sighed, the grimoire snapping open in her grasp as she began speedily scrawling a line into a page, her quill hand coming away with a flourish as Carbuncle came forth, bursting from the parchment with a sound like glass shards tinkling on the ground and an eruption of bright blue light. “I had hoped to avoid this until it was absolutely necessary…”

“Most monsters can smell blood. Our cover was blown when that first gremlin fell,” Ástríðr stated dismissively. She then looked to her sister. “ _ Sonja. Loosen up. _ ”

The level of implied threat in that command sent a shock through Katsumi’s spine.

“What—” Sonja began.

Ástríðr rounded on her. “Don’t think I didn’t see you hesitate. You’re the paladin. You hold the line! And yet Katsumi here was within striking distance before you even started moving! Get with the program.”

“It’s fine,” Katsumi interjected.

Ástríðr turned back to her, surprise clear and etched into her face, but the suddenly very real danger of the situation they were in allowed Katsumi to take the surging torrent within and push it aside for a moment.

“I saw she was tense, and I was prepared to step in to act if she hesitated,” Katsumi explained. “Hesitation is defeat, after all. If she died because of me, because my presence made her uneasy to the point where it made her worse at fighting…”

The implications on her relationship with Ástríðr that Katsumi foresaw went unsaid, though from the furrowing of the she-elf’s brow, the drahn suspected it did not go unheard.

“Be that as it may,” Ástríðr said with a sigh, her voice softening quickly. “Sonja, sis, you’ve gotta do your job, or else we’re all dead. I can keep all your blood in your body, but the others… I know Kyomi’d bleed out way faster than I can seal her wounds. So please, don’t make this experience harder than absolutely necessary.”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry, Ástríðr. It’s just…she’s distracting…”

“What do you mean?”

“It means she can sense me,” Katsumi supplied. “I noticed it earlier, that even should I move with absolute silence where she cannot see, she got more tense with every step closer to her I took.”

Sonja nodded. “It’s…this feeling, like at any moment I could be fatally wounded. It has me on a knife’s edge.”

Ástríðr shook her head. “Fuck. How are we going to fix this?”

“I suggest we do as I prepared for. Go forward, and I’ll step in when she locks up. Hopefully she eventually learns to block my presence out of her extrasensory awareness,” Katsumi said bluntly. “Deatheater thirsts. Shall we continue?”

“I suppose we must,” replied Ástríðr with a sigh.

“Are we sure about this?” asked Kyomi, exasperated and annoyed, but also concerned. “Sonja?”

“Yeah. That’ll work. It’ll have to.”

“Alright then. Let’s go,” bade Ástríðr.

Katsumi nodded, and started walking swiftly deeper into the darkness. Sonja rolled her shoulders to adjust her shield and get moving, followed swiftly by Ástríðr and the vii twins as they plunged into the depths that gleefully swallowed them whole.

* * *

There was no speaking after that point. Merely flashes. The unnatural yield of flesh as Deatheater’s edge bit deep, seeming quite a bit sharper than two days prior. The gentle melodies of Ástríðr’s flute as she played songs to knit their wounds closed, and the warm embrace of the subtle vibrations, the soft energies that settled into her at the sound. The feeling of Kagura’s bloodlust at her back and the vertigo that triggered whenever she went to execute a weaponskill, striking specifically or multiple times in the space of a single moment before collapsing that pocket and making her actions real. The low gekkering of the Carbuncle as it leapt and attacked. The bestial thrum in the air as Kyomi’s spells flew through the space. The rush as Sonja let her shield lead the way as she steadily found her footing and started beating Katsumi into the fray more and more often. There were no words, nor even really thoughts beyond the constant adjustment and readjustment to each other’s motions. They were really starting to get each other’s movements and rhythms when the last of the expected monsters fell dead, and they walked directly into a large, open chamber, fraught with dancing lights and shadows in full frolic. In the centre of the arena was a large creature, standing upright but on legs bent almost like a bovine’s, a decidedly inhuman musculature, and the head of a bull, its horns quite prodigious.

_ Like Chirin at the end of the movie, in minotaur form…  _

Katsumi shoved that odd thought away as she waited for Sonja to challenge the savage beast, large enough to wield two identical hafted labrys in a dual monkey-grip. It bayed loud enough for the very air to seem to shake, throwing its head around and carving furrows into the stone with its cloven hooves.

The minotaur looked at Sonja, its gleaming blood-red eyes devoid of a pupil, insensate, feral, practically unseeing, as it clanged its axes together and howled. Sonja stared right back at it, waiting for the right moment.

The monster and Sonja charged as one, Sonja’s shield covering her body as she put her weight and power behind it. They clashed, and the minotaur actually stopped and staggered, falling to one knee, its primal, savage animal brain clearly beyond confused as to how this much smaller creature could possibly stop its oncoming charge.

Right behind Sonja was Katsumi, tearing through the air in a front-flip that brought Deatheater’s blade descending rapidly into its head. The minotaur’s instincts, to maim, to slaughter, to rape and rut, were strong, however, and the axes were crossed above its head, their blades catching hers even as Deatheater sheared into the metal heads and bit deep into the thick, crude iron of which they were crafted.

Pressured, the minotaur didn’t have time to realise what was happening or react as Sonja switched out, and Kagura sped in, rearing back her tachi, and thrusting forward with a decisive phrase that set her aura to roaring.

“Ikken Hissatsu: Seiten.”

Katsumi had heard of shinsoku before. Godspeed, a speed surpassing that of a normal human, a theoretical concept that all swordsmen were meant to emulate and pursue even if they never achieved it. Kagura, however, was  _ gifted,  _ and swiftly enough that she could only catch a blur of the sword’s afterimage, she plunged her tachi into the minotaur’s chest up until there was no more blade left, and the kissaki, the pointed tip, was just emerging from the monster’s grotesquely muscled back.

The minotaur was still alive, though, and the pain would have it approaching a frenzy, so Kagura put her foot against the thing’s chest and wrenched her sword free in a gushing spray of blood, splattering on the stone a few metres behind Kagura, before she sped back, retreating from the zone of danger and letting Sonja come in to block the incoming strike with one, now severely chipped, axe. Katsumi sprung off of the parry, so as to control where she landed and not be thrown wherever the minotaur pleased with no way to affect her flight. She landed in a crouch behind it as Kyomi’s spells flew forth, Bio, a potent poison that was applied directly to the wound Kagura had opened, followed by Miasma, which formed a deep violet cloud of magical toxins around its head. It snorted and breathed them in, and immediately the spells were set to corroding the creature’s lungs to cause them to fail. Carbuncle dashed in and out, lashing the monster with weak blades made from wind, doing only surface damage, but still parting the flesh and allowing the Bio spell to spread more and more quickly.

Miasma and Bio were both spells classified under the umbrella of the Dark Arts, these for their viciousness and the nature of the energies drawn upon to realize them, she knew; she also knew that Deatheater could part flesh so affected more easily, even, than in recent encounters. This in mind, she gripped the hilt more securely and sliced the creature from shoulder to hip across its back, the umbral flame ensorcelling the blade of the dark sword leaving a wound that looked as though it was seared into the creature’s back for but a few moments before blood sprayed from that wound as well. Katsumi was struck somewhat dumb by the shock of just  _ how much  _ blood this minotaur must have to continue spraying out ichor like that, and from two wounds of that depth as well. After all, it wasn’t as though Deatheater had merely parted skin; through the haze of blood, she saw a hard surface also stained with blood, that could only be bone. But before the window of her advantage snapped closed, she followed up with another attack, slashing across the minotaur’s waist and then slashing down the centre of its back, Deatheater scraping and sparking along the hard bones of its spine even as the vertebra were penetrated and the nerves brushed with the point.

The moment the second hit passed through the first, bisecting the wound, a spurt of vigour flowed through her, not quite healing, more akin to fuel that was tossed onto the writhing black flame of the Darkside. 

_ The power surges within, the stolen vitality of fallen foes forfeited to our use… _

Shaking off Deatheater’s pronouncement, she was  _ just  _ quick enough to recover and dance out of range of the minotaur turning to her and swinging both axe blades at her. The strike was powerful enough that blades of wind tore through the air towards her as she retreated, before she planted her feet and slashed her dark sword up and through the approaching impact, parting it around her with her own strike.

_ The Darkside devours your pain to feed itself. It is ravenous, and leaves none for you. Be wary of its gluttony, or it will be your undoing… _

Katsumi checked herself for a brief moment, before registering an irritation in her eyes. She blinked, but it stayed, and so she brought a gloved hand up to touch it, and found it sticky, its smell like iron fired in a charnel pit amidst the bodies of the dead. A head injury, then. Those bled more than the severity of the wound ever really warranted.

Kagura dashed back from the monster, the vii’s hand resting on her shoulder as the samurai drew close enough. “You alright?”

“I’ll live,” Katsumi said grimly.

“Not what I asked.”

“It’s the answer you’re getting. No need to fret over me while the enemy stands before us and I can still fight.”

Kagura grinned. “ _ That’s  _ what I like to hear. Don’t worry. I’ll keep your remark away from the boss’s ears. I have a feeling she won’t react well to them.”

Katsumi cocked her head, perplexed. “Why— No. I suppose it doesn’t matter. We have a fight to win.”

“Alright. I’ve got your back.”

The drahn smirked. “Why would you have my back? You’ve got your own glory to win, your own strength to chase, don’t you? Go get it.”

Kagura nodded sharply, dashing in to start slashing at the minotaur’s skin, which, once tough as tanned leather, was now parting more and more easily as Bio caused its wounds to fester, its flesh discolouring and sloughing off of it, more liquid than solid as it rotted free. This didn’t exactly slow the minotaur; rather, the pain had it fully in a berserk frenzy, swinging its axes about haphazardly, trying desperately to hit the things that were killing it, the smell of its own rotting flesh flooding its nostrils and dampening its sense of smell, as Miasma’s fumes started devouring its eyes as well.

Its bovine snout flared and snorted, trying to dislodge the poison in its lungs, though the effort was futile. It bayed itself hoarse, putting every last vestige of its strength into fighting an enemy it could barely sense. Yet, its swings were faster and faster, and the fact that they were more haphazard meant that they were more difficult to predict, the margin of evasion narrowing by the moment to a hair’s breadth. She could see that if this continued, someone would get hurt.

She knew what she had to do.

“Kagura! Switch!”

Kagura looked away, evading an axe strike through sheer luck, the weapon passing the width of a finger over her head with a whoosh of air that surprised even her. She nodded curtly and dashed back again, and Katsumi replaced her instantly.

“I don’t have any fancy moves with a sword I’ve been trained with. I’m not that kind of fighter. But here’s something I do have.” She reared Deatheater back, and in the flash of a moment, spoke.

“ _ Soulsunder. _ ”

The blade lashed forth like an adder’s head, burying itself through the minotaur’s bestial heart and fully out the other side of its chest. It screamed and thrashed wildly, but Katsumi felt a smirk form on her face as she let the Darkside surge through her, pouring into her enemy, fuelled by a mixture of her life force and her intent to kill.

Wincing as the Darkside took its price in tribute, she planted her feet and dragged the kriegsmesser out of her foe, out and to the side in a flood of ichor as it was stained black.

The minotaur gasped, fell to its knees, and then onto its horned face, what remained of the flesh withering away to black-red tendrils of energy that rose like smoke, flooding into Katsumi’s sword, twisting around it before submerging into the blade entirely, even as the increasingly familiar feeling of experience gain stole upon her in the darkness of the arena. Deatheater pulsed scarlet once, illuminating an arrangement of strange symbols down its length for a moment, and then subsided fully.

The spirit of the sword spoke again, its words still written like a brand, but now with a sort of indistinct whisper to it.

_ Our road to the horizon is paved with corpses… _

“Did your sword claim its soul?” asked Sonja, wariness once more bursting forth from her frame.

“If it had done that, none of us would have gotten any experience,” Kyomi scoffed. “You’re starting to sound paranoid, Sonja.”

Sonja huffed and sighed, nodding herself; yet, Katsumi, too, echoed the paladin’s discomfort. The technique sprung to her mind, her body moving into it a split moment before she even knew what she was doing.

_What is this power with which I have been branded…?_ She looked at her free hand, flexing her fingers as she tried to grasp the nature of her abilities. _No wonder dark knights were so feared in the past. This is so strange that even_ I’m _getting more than a little worried._

“Regardless, we need to press on,” said Ástríðr, her authoritative tone ringing out loud and clear to Katsumi and the other three. “We have a tight deadline here, and every moment we’re not moving to kill is a moment of daylight wasted.”

Katsumi was about to ask about her wounds, but then realised she was unharmed, even as the lingering vestiges of Ástríðr’s healing song dissipated from her mind and body. Even the gash on her head was sealed, as she found when she touched her fingers to it.  _ Huh. _

Ástríðr passed her, holding her flute in her hand even still as she led the way to the other side of the arena, where a rock face barred her path. Bringing the flute to her lips even as the other members of the party drew closer to her, the she-elf blew a single, shrill note into the instrument, leading the rock to crack and shatter, falling into rubble. “Sympathetic vibrations. Easy enough to make. The trouble is in finding them, and, of course, being pitch-perfect enough to hit them precisely and consistently whatever they are.”

Katsumi wasn’t certain that was  _ exactly  _ how sympathetic vibrations worked that they could be replicated by a  _ flute _ of all things, but as with her ability to see colours in complete darkness before, she tucked that away into the “Magic” bin, now with two items, and nodded, continuing forth, though feeling silly that in the wake of all that’s happened until this point, including the multiplying presences taking up space in their own little corners of her mind, the  _ sympathetic vibrations  _ explanation is what she’s questioning first. That was a  _ special _ kind of ludicrous for her to turn to, even on reflex.

The others followed suit behind them, Carbuncle running to catch up to its summoner with a sort of distinctly canine glee.


	7. Elf On the Shelf

The fallen stones proved no great obstacle, navigating around them no significant undertaking. To Ástríðr, the battlefield was alive with rhythm. There was a mandate of sorts, a desire deep within her to unleash harmonious, resonant chaos. But as soon as the dust cleared, it revealed a number of monsters that looked as surprised to see them as the party was to see the monsters. It was wrong. There should have been hatred and blood and emotion. Instead, however, there seemed to be only a collection of creatures acting as if they were  _ supposed  _ to be there.

The camp they had just stumbled upon was staffed by a number of these ugly green creatures, tall and bulky and crudely batrachian in their features, with broad heads sat upon broad shoulders with no discernible neck. Their dull, slimy, mucus-hued eyes regarded them with dumb acknowledgement, barely aware enough to be rightly deemed ‘bestial.’ Primitive leathers and bone plates and animal skins served as armour, though the weapons they bore were made from crude, low-quality iron, in open defiance of all other indicators of this race’s level of technological sophistication. 

They bayed and gurgled in their half-aquatic tongue, and even fluency sounded choppy and broken from their wide, oozing mouths, filled with rows of sharp, serrated teeth.

“ _ Orcs… _ ” spat Sonja. “What the fuck are they doing this close to Maelnaulde?!”

“Is that really relevant?” asked Katsumi, lending her attention to Ástríðr’s sister. “We kill them like all the rest. Leave none of them alive. And we’d best be about it quickly, lest they do the same to us.”

Sonja sighed, and nodded. “You’re right.”

“Glad you’re back with the sense-makers, sis,” Ástríðr remarked to Sonja, keen on undermining her. Ástríðr almost panicked in that moment, unsure of where such a malicious thought had come from. Certainly, mocking Sonja was a favoured pastime of hers, but this was truly neither the time nor the place. “You’re the one with the shield. Lead the way?”

Apparently unaware of her sister’s confusion, Sonja nodded curtly and charged forth again, thrusting her sword in the air, a little ring of light appearing at its tip, then erupting forth into multiple interlocking spiked rings of semi-transparent white energy that illuminated the room and sounded like the tinkling of bells as it rotated before bursting, the last auditory sensation like shattered glass in her ears.

“Holy Circle. Good to see she’s getting serious about this,” Ástríðr muttered, placing her flute to her lips and coaxing it into a shrill cry that vibrated the instrument’s construction. “I might as well respond in kind.”

Kyomi’s Miasma spell blasted in the midst of the orcs with such force that some of them visibly recoiled, Carbuncle rearing back and spitting forth a blast of air that literally cut through them, the gales twisting about themselves and putting a weak cyclone that encompassed most of the orcs in the middle of their group.

Kyomi’s next spell was Contagion, and it was Bio, but somewhat weaker and affecting multiple victims simultaneously. It spread just as quickly, however, and quickly intensified until the orcs were howling in horror and pain, their skin rotting away more quickly than the minotaur’s did.

And then there was Katsumi. As the battle raged, Ástríðr found herself rather frustrated by the lack of attention the drahn was giving her. It was as if there was a… Well, it was almost painful. She didn’t want to think of herself as pining for another’s affection. There was no reason to. She was just a random person who… No. That was a lie. She wasn’t ‘just a random person.’ She was Katsumi. Katsumi was special. Katsumi hadn’t fled in horror after seeing her fully herself. Everyone else outside of the family fled, or swooned, or did any number of other empty things the moment they learned what she was. Katsumi hadn’t.

Katsumi. Katsumi. Katsumi… Ástríðr could not seem to clear her mind of the damn girl, could not seem to wipe the smell of her, the saucy, alluring scent of blood and belladonna, from her nose. But…there was nothing between them. 

Nothing.

Right? 

No, she knew that wasn’t true. 

On some level—on every level, she could feel her mind screaming it as though caught in an isolated fit of madness—she knew she was falling for the girl. 

And of course, she had eyes; she knew that the girl was falling for her, even if the girl herself was blissfully unaware of it. She knew that. She knew it. She did. She did… 

No. She didn’t. Not really. 

Did Katsumi love Ástríðr? 

Was Ástríðr even  _ worthy _ of love to begin with? As Kyomi had so  _ elegantly _ reminded her, Ástríðr was something of a monster. Someone who took little care for the needs, wants, whims, or general health of others. 

By the time Ástríðr realised with an unwelcome shock that she had stopped playing, that her lips and lungs had frozen at the lip of the flute, it was nearly too late for someone of her speed to dodge the orcish blade that swung downward right next to where her head was mere seconds ago. Wait, no. She hadn’t dodged. She had been pulled out of the way. She almost blushed when she realised that Katsumi’s hand had grabbed her waist. It was… _ new. _ There was a gentle warmth to her touch, but by the same token, Katsumi felt… _ guarded, _ somehow. Ástríðr made sure the woman who might well be her first love did not see her so affected. There was too much of a chance that she had failed to suppress her flush. After all, she had nearly died just there, and she had never thought it possible she would space out in the middle of a battle, so what else was she letting slip in her daze?

More importantly, she found she didn’t want to look into her eyes. Fear rose like a corpse flower blooming in her throat. She was terrified that Katsumi might have pulled her out of the way out of a sense of practicality, of cooperative self-preservation, and for no other deeper reason. There was the very real possibility that she was overthinking things, paralyzing herself; it terrified her, and she despised it with every beat of her heart. 

By the time Ástríðr returned to herself, there was a hot feeling flashing unpleasantly through her chest, and she was completely unsure of whether she wanted to commit brutal murder or suicide. The admonitions came from Katsumi’s mouth, swift and stinging, expressing her displeasure at Ástríðr for completely forgetting herself in the middle of combat. The flush on Katsumi’s face could have been blushing, and truth be told, Ástríðr desperately wanted to believe that that was the case, but Ástríðr could not manage to escape the thought that it was anger that fuelled the rebuke. She had, after all, nearly gotten herself killed. 

Biting her tongue so hard she could almost swear she tasted the familiar tang, Ástríðr’s breath returned to her instrument.  _ Stupid, foolish, reckless. _ Of course Katsumi wouldn’t want her. The poor girl had been through hell the previous night, the same hell that was forced upon all those who shared her bed. The fight they were in demanded her immediate attention; the enemy before her could easily claim Katsumi’s life if she didn’t kill it. There’d be ample time for self-doubt later, when the very thought that made her stomach churn up in knots and made her see red was relegated to an abstraction and no longer seemed like such a real possibility. 

Once more, Ástríðr felt Katsumi’s arms around her, restraining her. Her first thought was that Katsumi meant to pull her back. Once more, Ástríðr felt like something shrivelled in her abdomen, sending liquid murder through her veins. 

Then she looked around her. 

Kagura  _ vibrated  _ with excitement. 

Kyomi was on the verge of uproarious mirth. 

Sonja’s expression was somewhere between horror and shame. 

Katsumi’s…

Katsumi’s reaction was many things, chief among them being dumb, uncomprehending shock, but otherwise so muddled and dissonant as to be unreadable.

_ Why do they all look at me so? _

Ástríðr turned around.

_ Oh. _

Blood and gore, bones and viscera. She vaguely remembered that there were orcs that stood before her at one point. They had menaced her with crude weapons, which were nowhere in sight. Ástríðr had never had cause to doubt her own memory, but the past span of a day had proven this to be one suffocated by firsts. What had done this?

“Well, fuck, Ástríðr,” Kagura remarked, stunned, and to say she was grinning was an understatement bordering on misrepresentation. Her entire countenance was swallowed by her teeth, her lips were pulled back so far. “You sure you’re a bard and not, say, a warrior? You’ve been holding out on me!” 

“What?” Ástríðr asked, dissociation settling as an unwholesome pall upon her broad shoulders.

Kyomi’s hand joined it there, her voice low enough that only the two of them, and maybe Sonja, could hear it. “We haven’t been fighting for half an hour. With one note they kinda died or exploded, their weapons only fragments strewn about the camp by this point. Then you started punching, and tearing, and I suppose ripping.  _ Definitely  _ gouging. Personally, I suggest you stop unless you want scars on your knuckles that not even healing magic can remove. The whole thing was cool at first, but then it just kinda…got awkward… But hey! Maybe Sophia’ll be impressed with your thoroughness. I know _ I  _ am!”

Katsumi’s hand alighting upon her face gingerly brought the conversation to a screeching halt. Her thumb drew circles into the soft flesh, and soon its twin joined it on the other side of her face, repeating the same motion. Gently, Katsumi turned Ástríðr’s face to hers, and those violet eyes burrowed deep into her, searching. On her face was the most open expression Ástríðr had seen all day. Then her eyes locked, her face returned to its impassive, focused cast, and she nodded once, curtly, more a bob of her head as a definitive affirmation. “It’s you. Good.”

“Well, of course it’s me. Would anyone  _ else _ look this fucking sexy in a fit of primal rage?” Ástríðr said, cringing as she realised she was smiling just a bit too broadly.

Katsumi shook her head. “No, that’s not what I mean. Your mind remains your own. Your sanctuary is yet unbreached.”

She then looked at where her hands were placed, flushed, and then yanked them away as though burned. Her head studiously turned from Ástríðr, her purple eyes looking anywhere else. “W-we should press on, I think. The work waits.”

The blush might have been a good sign. Everything else was not. Ástríðr wanted nothing more than to just have the girl but she couldn’t bring herself to do anything about it. Those words from the previous night rang through her mind for not the first time that day:  _ To allow you to violate me would be to surrender the last of myself, and what remained would be bestial. _

“Damn it,” Ástríðr hissed to herself. Her words were quiet enough that the gods wouldn’t hear them, and yet Katsumi’s gaze reverted to her sharply.

“Taking this job was your idea. If you will not lead, who then shall I—shall  _ we _ follow?” Katsumi’s reprimand was quick, though its sharp edge was brittle, enough that it shattered entirely upon the final word.

“Me,” Ástríðr said calmly. She wasn’t even aware of the sudden change until she realised that Katsumi was on the ground looking rather dazed. “Remember that. A moment’s weakness does not affect my ability to lead so completely as you seem to think.”

“I did not think you incapable, merely shaken. Hesitation is defeat. To falter is to perish,” Katsumi replied, rubbing at her jaw. “I would not have our centre unable to hold, lest we fall to ash like so many leaves on the night wind.”

Unlike Ástríðr, Kyomi took no care to be quiet at all when she giggled and asked, “Do you think they know we can hear them? As fascinating as this is, I sorta wanted to get the whole dungeon thing finished some time  _ before  _ I find myself wizened and grey.”

Katsumi shook her head. “As I have said, the work waits, yet I somehow doubt any of us here assembled should prefer this delve to finish with our deaths.”

“Actually, I’m very much okay with dying in combat,” remarked Kagura.

“Agreed,” Kyomi said with a smile, “It’d be quite the adventure to see what lies beyond, no?”

“Quite astute, my dear sister. But I suppose we had best move from such ideas right now. Ástríðr is beginning to look at us funny.”

“Noted.”

Katsumi looked at the both of them. “From what I have been told, I think dying here would be a far less pleasant experience than either of you give it credit for. The Sword Saint, at least, does not seem the type to be stymied by such trivialities as the mortal veil, and I would hazard a guess that the one named Sophia is possessed of similar capabilities.”

Kyomi leaned in to whisper to Kagura. Or at least, it looked like she had. In reality she spoke just as loudly as before. “Why is Katsumi suddenly talking about death like that?”

“I’ve not the slightest clue as to what provoked her. She’s being quite morbid, though. Mayhaps we should just move on and hope she follows along our path of life?”

Kyomi nodded solemnly, “Agreed.”

“And just what would you two idiots know about Katsumi’s…” Ástríðr paused instead of continuing to speak. As if her own words had dealt her some finishing blow. “Apart from the five of us, we’re going to kill every last thing in this dungeon that moves. I’m done with this nonsense.”

“But of course,” Kyomi announced, turning to present her right profile and raising a closed fist.

“Your will is our command,” Kagura answered, mirroring her sister’s motion.

Carbuncle ran between them and leapt up to complete the picture with a strangely high-pitched squeal.

“...Right then…” Katsumi muttered. 

* * *

Orcs stood between them and the next chamber, but they died without much in the way of significant danger. Somehow Ástríðr held herself together much more tightly as they proceeded into the mine, the corridors narrowing ever tighter as they twisted through the complex, lined on either side by thick veins of sparkling raw mithril. It became clear that the minotaur had been a decoy, a tamed warbeast to conceal the infestation of beastman tribes that ran deep into the earth. Rotting orcs crossed their path eventually, first one, then three, and more and more as they continued towards the next open chamber. Few of the more recent bodies, the ones with most of their flesh still intact, bore fatal wounds, yet the discolouration spoke of a potent poison, according to Kyomi’s sage knowledge on the subject. How the Drunken Whore’s resident professional dominatrix had come to accumulate so much in-depth knowledge of the esoteric poisons she rattled off as she examined the corpses, Ástríðr wasn’t fully certain she wanted to discover, now or ever.

They were somewhat prepared, then, when upon entering the next large arena-like chamber, a snarling sabre-toothed face in a bestial approximation of a man’s on a lion’s head and body snapped at them, its batlike wings unfurling with a crack of tensing membrane even as the chitinous tail, spiked and with a grossly oversized scorpion’s stinger on the end of it, thrashed and beat the ground.

The tail lashed forth into the corridor, over and over, the tight space meaning close calls and narrow evasions more dependent on luck than any semblance of skill. Katsumi was the first to recover and stab her narrow, overlarge two-handed sword into the fleshy gaps in the chitin, causing the manticore to recoil, the wings beating and bearing it aloft.

A swirling vortex Ástríðr hesitated to call anything save ‘darkness’ swirled around Katsumi, redoubling as she pursued the tail, and then surging as she bent her knees and launched herself off of the ground up to the higher levels of the arena. 

The manticore scrambled on the rock walls of the large domed chamber, its claws struggling to find sufficient purchase for its considerable muscular bulk, before the scorpion’s tail lashed out to try and get Katsumi. A split second before it was unavoidable, Katsumi launched herself off of the wall and onto the opposite wall across the arena, then off of that wall to grip onto a handful of the manticore’s Nemean flesh, swinging about and over onto its back, plunging her blade into the vulnerable juncture at the base of the tail.

The monster’s pain ricocheted around the chamber as its grip failed and its wings caught it, before it began thrashing in flight to dislodge the irritant causing it such pain.

Katsumi was thrown loose, her sword flying from her grasp as she was launched to the ground with no way to right herself or avoid grievous injury upon impact.

Ástríðr was moving before she even fully registered what was about to happen, her breath flowing through the flute as “Leaves From the Vine” worked to counter her acceleration. She could only do so much with that, however, and so she made up the remainder by moving to where Katsumi would fall, catching her lithe form in her arms even as the transfer of momentum threw her off of her feet.

A shadow fell across them, a dozen dull thuds in quick succession tolling like a bell as she looked up to see Sonja stood before her, her shield raised, though holding a number of spines on its face.

Those weren’t  _ spikes  _ on the manticore’s tail. They were  _ quills. _

Kyomi threw forth the deep purple cloud of lung-rotting Miasma, but by the time the spell had taken shape, the magics unfolding, the manticore was already out of it. Bio, the green-brown ball of semi-transparent magical poison, in contrast, shot through the air, snapping onto the manticore’s hide and spreading, almost falling away until it found that wound, the almost-severed joint, and attacked it with extreme prejudice. Kagura ran forth and tried to replicate Katsumi’s show of irrational athleticism, but failed and merely looked silly. Leaping up and down, however, caught the manticore’s attention, and it dove like a falcon and  _ slammed  _ into the stone floor, scrambling for purchase on the smooth stone and leaving gaping rends in the rock with its deadly claws, its jaw unhinging as its double-toned leonine roar shook the foundations of the chamber, a feral challenge and absolute command for bestial submission. Rather than being cowed by the primal venomous creature that, according to some, invented death and all things that were bad, Kagura lunged forth and stabbed her tachi as deeply as she could into one of the manticore’s eyes.

The effect was immediate, the creature’s claws raking through where Kagura had been, though now she was fifteen metres back from the creature and so it struck only air. Kagura didn’t have a moment to rest, however, as quills harassed her location, forcing her to flee at a dead sprint around the room. Sonja, relieved, charged forth, shield leading the way as the round slab of wood and metal bashed into the side of the manticore’s head, jostling its gouged eye. The pain that lanced through the monster’s skull was unmistakable, its forelimbs collapsing for a moment and its unending hail of quills going wide of Kagura’s running form, cutting a swath up the rock wall that punctured deep into the stone. When the manticore turned to Sonja, igneous venom built up as its glands swelled in the back of its throat, but as Ástríðr beheld the rare smirk that split Sonja’s usually demure, stoic expression, she knew that her sister had a trick up her sleeve.

A quick twirl of her sword set it alight with bright magical flames the colour of a flower their mother had shown them once—guren—and Ástríðr realised what was going to happen.

“Crimson Lotus Blade,” Sonja stated, lashing her sword arm forth and burying the blade into the manticore’s swollen gland the moment before the venom was ejected. Just as quickly, the spatha retreated and Sonja’s shield moved to defend her face and upper body, with not a moment to spare; the manticore’s jaws slammed shut as the explosive weaponskill ignited the venom in the back of its maw, erupting in a brilliant conflagration that consumed the poison as it spread, blasting out of the bottom of the monster’s throat.

The manticore’s skin did not break, but its gorge sagged, laying plain the ruination of its neck; but the manticore’s jaw was forced open, the flame spewed forth as the joint of its maw was shattered irreparably, bathing Sonja in some residual tongues of the ignition that her shield was more than enough to defend her from. She took that moment all the same to use a second weaponskill, her sword alighting in bright blue, spectral fire, a shadow of the mythical Mortal Flame, and then plunging into the manticore’s remaining eye with a spray of deep crimson, almost black ichor that splattered onto her raised shield and steamed with its own significant heat, even as the shadow of the Mortal Flame was extinguished with coils of black smoke rising from its ruined, mangled socket. “Burning Blade.”

The manticore lashed out once more, many times and now blindly, unable to roar or see, unable to spew forth venom that would alight into unquenchable flame upon contact with the air, and now all that remained was its damaged tail and claws. 

And, of course, its wings.

Katsumi tore free of Ástríðr’s hold the moment the manticore found the strength to raise its wings, and to Ástríðr’s great, burning shame, rising as a large, uncomfortable, flaming lump in her throat, she had not even been conscious of the drahn’s awakening as the battle continued, having assumed her dead the world. 

“Deatheater! To me!”

The greatsword on the other side of the chamber stirred, and then shot off, spinning as a discus towards her at an impossible speed, the hilt slamming into her outstretched hand with an impact that should have been hard enough, given its speed, to shatter every bone in her arm and wrench it out of its socket if not off her body entirely; yet, her fingers closed around it, unharmed, and she brought it to bear without even a wince of pain. She swung it up and over her shoulder into its baldric on her back, leaving both hands free.

With one strong stride as the darkness from before surged forth to envelop her form once again, she sprung into flight, ripping up the stone beneath her as she did, the force of her acceleration leaving a vacuum in her wake which wrought havoc on the topography.

The manticore perhaps sensed the danger, the absolute annihilation that turned the air of the room into a suffocating, cloying pall, and took to flight; yet, it was not fast enough, Katsumi planting her feet mid-flight as she launched up into the air, shooting up and closing the distance much more swiftly than the manticore could gain it. Katsumi rose before the manticore’s face, and there was a pause that Ástríðr might have only been imagining. Her hands shot forth, grabbing the limbs that supported the membrane that allowed the manticore flight, seizing them in a death grip; then she plummeted faster than falling would have accounted for, and the sudden change ripped the bones from the wings entirely, tearing away the limbs as she crashed towards the ground.

Ástríðr knew she could not cushion this descent, not with any of the songs in her repertoire. The image of Katsumi’s body on the stone, broken, shattered, mangled,  _ still…  _

A dull shock ran up her arm. She returned to herself in time to see the impact finish moving its way through the manticore, the chitin plates popping off of the tail and the bulbous stinger on the end  _ bursting _ and spraying venom in a broad cone behind it. Her arm held strong and fast in the follow-through motion of a punch, her fist embedded into the shattered skull of the monster.

Katsumi walked gingerly as she approached, the dark aura dissipating from her form, Carbuncle bounding around jovially in her wake. The last few moments should have brought Ástríðr some sense of disquiet, given that they were now fully blanked out of her mind, but all she could feel was a wave of relief that sapped her strength.  _ She’s okay. She’s okay. She’s okay… _

There were several long moments that Ástríðr spent staring at Katsumi, captured by the look in her eye. There was no judgement there, no fear, no disgust. That is, until Katsumi noticed that they were making eye contact, at which point her face flushed and she turned away, firmly showing her profile and  _ only  _ her profile, her gaze focused on the corpse. “T-that was a good blow. Well-executed.”

“Are you hurt?”

Katsumi’s eyes went wide, and then narrowed, her face turning away entirely. “I’m fine! I-it’s just muscle fatigue. I’ll manage…”

A sigh. “Oh, for the love of… I was going to have you all fight a chimera next, but quite frankly, this is just sad. You pass!”

That voice. None of them knew it.

Ástríðr and Katsumi whirled around, and the bard was aware of her sister and the other pair of twins turning to look. And what faced them was a sight and a half.

“A…clown…”

In front of them was a clown. A jester. A jongleur. No two ways about it. From the outlandish garb to the garish white makeup, in every sense was this…man?…meant to attract attention.

The jester’s face was fully androgynous, and the voice was no help, resting in that grey register that could debatably belong to a high-pitched man or a deep-voiced woman. The billowing pale green blouse they wore obscured the shape of their torso, and the tights that clung to their legs were certainly shapely enough to be on a woman. The pointed, upturned shoes were so stereotypically Ravanan that they couldn’t possibly have been genuine, and the layers of bright pastel cloaks with carpet-like hems further obscured their figure. A spectacularly feathered turban capped their head and hid their hair, their purple-painted eyes a solid multicoloured abyss, shining from time to time with sparkling lights, each of which reminding Ástríðr uncannily of the brilliance that heralded the death of a distant star. 

In comparison to their eyes, the literally carved-on scarlet smile ought to have appeared mundane, but as the lips peeled back to show sharp, interlocking teeth, holding back a forked tongue that was distantly reminiscent of a serpent, it was profoundly unsettling.

The jester brought their hands together in a single clap, and they were as pale-white as the merrymaker’s painted face, tipped with sharp claws that were painted a shade eerily reminiscent of dried blood, and though their face moved and emoted, it only highlighted the mask-like quality of their countenance instead of dispelling it.

“Well, Frey gave our ‘crossroads’ here a push along the way, and  Óðinn imparted to her the thingamabob around which this whole game revolves…and Loki’s quite thoroughly indisposed. What a trial, what a bother, what an awful _ bore! _ ” The jester moved from word to word with a chaotic mixture of wild gesticulations and vaudevillian pantomime, ending reclined as though on a salon sofa  _ in mid-air.  _ “Oh well oh well oh well. Nothing to be done about it, I suppose. Yes, yes, there’s simply  _ nothing  _ to be done! O lament, o dirge, o frightful tragedy!”

“Excuse me…” Sonja began.

“You’re excused~” the clown interjected in a breathy, faux-aristocratic voice and an exaggeratedly posh gesture of dismissal.

“…But what  _ precisely  _ are you here for?” Sonja pushed on.

The clown turned their gaze onto Sonja, somehow communicating a sense of deep, long suffering exasperation despite neither their carved, grinning mouth nor their magenta-coloured eyebrows making even the slightest quirk of motion. “I somehow doubt that’s a question you want answered, gelfling. We’d be here until the Promised Day, and we’d only stop then because the explanation would then be moot!”

“By what name are you called?” asked Katsumi.

The jongleur ceased, and then rotated, until it looked as though they were perched upright in an armchair. “Well then. She speaks! And what a question does she lead with! Not that tired old question of ‘who are you’ or ‘what is your name’ or ‘what manner of creature are you’, but no, an actual question that would produce an answer of which you people are  _ fully _ able to comprehend! Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

The joker mimed swooning. “I am called Azoth, the Quicksilver, the Perdition of Paracelsus, the Pierrot of Persecution, but that is merely a descriptor and not a soubriquet. You may know me as Mephisopheles, however, if it please you.”

Mephistopheles finished off their introduction with a sweeping, dramatic bow and an overdone, bombastic flourish.

“An Apostle, then?” asked Kyomi.

The jester’s face didn’t so much as twitch, but their displeasure was palpable, changing from the pleasured surprise of earlier with a shift to rival the material with which Mephistopheles was apparently described. “Indeed. And Óðinn told me of  _ you.  _ The  _ clever  _ one. The Conduit. Careful, girl~ You needn’t dig too deeply, lest the abyss you find there stare back into you~! But yes. I am the Apostle Mephistopheles the Joyous Herald, of the Four Fiends.”

“The Four Fiends?”

“ _ Indeed, _ ” bit out the jester, still making their grossly exaggerated gestures, the overblown nature of them making the human motions seem alien and otherworldly, unsettling, like an imperfect imitation, utterly devoid of any context or authenticity. “The offices given to the greatest Apostles of our unborn god. The Herald, the Retainer, the Knight, and the Shepherd. Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. There are others of our number, but theirs are the lower offices, and they are not to be burdened with the full scope of our Dark Divinity’s grand design. They have not the vision to comprehend their part in it, nor the faith to see it through to the end of their own agency. We are but emblems of treachery, and ours is the sacred task to unite the voices of our profaned brethren, and raise them up that our Prince might become quick, that the black sun’s bloody dawn might give shape to our hopes and dreams and prayers.

“Save in the nocturnal embrace of our Sunderer of Heaven, we are vermin, cast out, mistrusted,  _ abhorred. _ Ours is the heritage that shall claim back the skies, and through our god shall our shackles be shattered. We shall rise from our warrens and lairs in all the deep and unseen places of the earth and walk abroad, revelling in the new order.”

“What do you want with her.”

It took everyone looking to her, including Mephistopheles, for  Ástríðr to realise those words, icy and fraught with murder, had escaped from her lips, had found voice through her lungs and were now hanging in the air between them.

“The Stormfury asks, and this humble Herald shall answer:  _ nothing, _ ” said the jester, and if not for the profound sincerity of their tone and the air around them, a much better indicator of this Apostle’s mood than the expressions on their face, Ástríðr would have assumed deception or mockery of some kind. “Simply that. I wish  _ nothing  _ of her. I wished only to see with my own eyes how the Beautiful Lady, Shade of Night that she is, was blossoming, lit in the light of the moon and lashed by the winds of the storm that rages high on the mountaintop. And, despite my original admonition, I was by no means disappointed. As I have said, I am but a humble Herald, and it shall fall to me to impart unto thee and thine thy next appointed steps in this grand dance, this great wheeling of the indifferent stars on high, and the remote worlds that pay them their ephemeral tribute. I simply thought it might make  _ my  _ task something of a simpler undertaking if we were acquainted before the next act comes to the stage.”

“Want me to kill ‘em?” Kagura asked, though none too subtly. The jester merely checked their sharp nails, as though examining whether their colour was fading, and did not respond.

“No, you moron,” Kyomi snapped. “You’d die!”

“An astute observation, Conduit. You are correct! Doing me harm is a task that is _ very  _ far beyond any of your currently limited means,” Mephistopheles supplied affably, turning over in midair until they rested on their stomach, their head propped up with one hand while the other reached forth and toyed with a strand of Katsumi’s hair with the very end of their index nail. She might as well have been made of stone from how she reacted. “But the appointed time is coming, oh yes, it’s coming! And it will be here  _ sooner than you think. _ ”

The words registered on some level, but Ástríðr might as well have been hearing them underwater. Irrational rage surged forth within her, and her hand lashed out to seize the clown’s hand. “ _ Don’t. Touch. Her. _ ”

The playful charge the air had taken tensed to a fever pitch as Mephistopheles looked at her, and though their face was unchanged, there was a distinct sense of her hair standing on end, as though death approached, unseen though deeply felt, from just out of the corner of her eye.

“There was an old order of meddlers in the past who thought they could twist the cycle of the heavens of their own will, to drag the machinations of the gods into their favour. Fools one and all though they were, they had one  _ particular  _ practise known as the gom jabbar. It seems like a lesson that it would serve you well to learn, o Stormfury,” the jester said lightly, though the feeling heightened until it felt as though someone was sharpening a dagger with a whetstone right next to her ear.

Katsumi hooked her hand around Ástríðr’s and pulled the elf’s grip down, away from the self-proclaimed Herald’s wrist. “Point. Taken.”

“ _ Is  _ it, now? Well, that’s just golly grand, now isn’t it?” chuckled Mephistopheles, rising from their prone position and into a posture that didn’t seem physically possible within the constraints of leverage and gravity. Then they sighed, waving the band of five away. “But I digress. All this work, tricking the orcs and the tengu to work together… Eh. I suppose I’ve only got myself to blame. This silly little cave-mine-thing is clear. You can go ahead and head on back. I’ve seen what I needed to.”


	8. Cut With A Knife

As it turned out, their contact was someone Ástríðr also knew personally. Dame Rienna tol Ciencia, knight-captain of the Order of the Crown and the single greatest fighter in Her Grace the Prince’s service, was a woman almost equal to Ástríðr in stature, despite being disadvantaged in both height and musculature on account of her species. Her maroon eyes and close raven hair, arranged in what Katsumi would have called a pixie cut—though she knew not why that term sprung to mind, yet another of the gaps in her memory that were shrinking oh so very slowly—combined with her icy austerity to create an image like that of an ancient statue of some long-dead emperor given new life, and the armour she wore seemed somehow at odds with the rest of her appearance. Made up of what looked to be two different materials, her platemail fit the muscled contours of her body well without dangerous pitfalls like mammary armour, and appeared to be extremely expensive even absent the fact that it was polished to a fine reflective sheen, which must have been painstaking; the armour covered her from her neck to her feet with not a hint of non-metal materials exposed anywhere in between, and as mentioned before, she wasn’t a small woman.

They had proceeded to the Drunken Whore immediately after returning their raptors, with some terse words that Katsumi felt certain carried implied threats that she hadn’t caught, and Kyomi had taken it upon herself to explain the identity of who they were meeting at the bordello. They arrived just before their curfew, the sun dipping dangerously low on the horizon when they stepped over the threshold to see Madam Tsuyu, Tandem, and the knight-captain conversing genially. Katsumi had time to take in the woman and the massive shield, a scutum more than half her size and broader than she was, leaned up all but unattended against the bar, before the black-haired woman’s maroon eyes bolted her to the spot. There was a moment of profound unease, a feeling of exacting assessment sweeping over her, before the woman’s thin lips split into a smile too small to be welcoming and too large to be a smirk, that didn’t reach beyond her mouth, let alone to her eyes.

“Ah. That’s the drahn I’ve been looking for,” she said, and her voice was a caress like a dagger gliding over her flesh. Her teeth were straight, arranged perfectly, and  _ just  _ this side of inhumanly white, and they flashed every time her mouth moved. She walked towards Katsumi slowly, her stride an odd mix of a predator’s easy lope and a groom’s open, accommodating approach, and it did little and less to soothe Katsumi’s nerves as she heard the oiled mail and polished plates of her armour slide against each other with each step. One gauntleted hand rested on the pommel of a strange arming sword, too long to be a gladius, but similar in shape, resting in its scabbard secured to a belt buckled with a strange five-limbed symbol that oddly resembled a Christian cross with regards to the feeling it stirred within her. “Look up at me and meet my eyes, girl. Calm yourself, and be assured that I mean you no harm.”

Katsumi raised her head to look into the maroon of the woman’s gaze, impassive yet searching. It put ice down her spine, an aura of authority not even the dark knight could ignore coming off of the knight-captain in waves. Thankfully, whatever the woman sought, she found, and she then nodded with a certainty the drahn envied mightily. Katsumi’s hand twitched to reach for Deatheater, but she suppressed it; if she was to come to harm here, thusly surrounded by allies much more capable than she, she knew that even if she had a weapon to hand, it would do her no good. 

“Maman, please. You’re scaring her.”

Ástríðr stiffened behind her, Katsumi noted, and oddly enough, so did Sonja. Curious.

Dame Rienna held her gaze for a moment longer before her smile became mirthful. She stepped aside, and from behind her stepped a hume woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty, her raven hair bound in a long single braid that rested over her shoulder and ran down her finery-clad front. Her dress’s sleeves were enlarged and billowed at the elbow, though an under-layer ran down the remainder of her arm, covering the better part of her hands but leaving the fingers free, together with her shoulders and collarbone. An elaborate metal choker, more decorative than functional, was closed around her neck, the deep red jewel displayed there swirling with unspoken mysteries in its precious depths. Her clothing consisted of layers of lavender, sable, and scarlet fabric, and though her gown was not so long that it reached the floor or excessively impeded her motion, it did give a fluid flow to her movements.

The girl’s face was beatific, though it stirred no attraction in Katsumi beyond the aesthetic acknowledgement of her gentle features, pale skin and a flawless complexion much like her own conforming to the structure of the girl’s face. Her lips were more plush than her mother’s, but not improperly so, and her brow was weaker than Katsumi’s, but not by much. Her eyes were startling, though, an aurum-hued gaze studying her passively. She smelled of incense and roses, and it stuck in Katsumi’s nose. The girl smiled, but it seemed almost like a mask, far too practised. “My name is Mercédès. It is good to finally meet you.”

“Finally? How do you know me?” Katsumi asked, wincing at how combative her voice sounded.

The girl, Mercédès, laughed, and it was like the peals of a bell. “Such suspicion! You  _ are  _ Katsumi of the Fallen Rain, are you not?”

Katsumi nodded uneasily. “To the best of my knowledge, I am, yes.”

“Well then!” She clapped her hands together. “Mother, do you know where  Estinien wandered off to, by any chance?”

“No idea, Your Grace.”

“ _ Maman… _ ”  Mercédès pouted, and then sighed. “So much for him, I suppose. You’ll have to leash your wayward squire one of these days, Maman. I’m no knight myself, but I’d wager a fair sum it’s hardly proper for him to be anywhere save close to hand. Oh well.”

Katsumi currently had two options. She could further inquire as to whether the girl and her mother had expected her that the word ‘finally’ was used, and have Mercédès avoid the question again, or she could possibly address the title that was just ascribed to the girl, and perhaps catch her off guard. “Excuse me, ‘your grace’?”

Mercédès froze, her eyes wide, and then closed them with a sigh, shaking her head. “Yes, indeed. My full name is Mercédès Charlotte Lucerne, and I have the  _ dubious  _ honour of serving the people of the Principality of Maelnaulde as their ruler. My mother, Dame Rienna, was… _ close _ …with my father, the previous prince, but as per his will, in his  _ indefinite _ absence, I hold the office and title of prince. I had hoped to  _ avoid  _ this, as it usually ends with bowing and scraping and sycophancy, all of which being  _ so very tiresome,  _ but  _ my mother  _ continues to sabotage my efforts to that effect.”

Dame Rienna shrugged, wholly devoid of contrition. “She would have eventually discovered your ennoblement, and I daresay beginning relations with deception is at best poor manners, and is considered by most who are versed in diplomacy to be an act of  _ startlingly _ bad faith. I won’t apologise for refusing to encourage bad habits.”

“ …Be that as it may,”  Mercédès sighed, colouring slightly from her mother’s seemingly casual, but firm, admonitions. She plastered another smile onto her face, this one radiating piety. “A dear friend of mine spoke of you at length, and, well, when Maman caught word from that odious little dwarf formerly running Maelnaulde’s Guild of Adventurers that you had shown up, I did my best to arrange a way to meet you face-to-face. And may I say, you do not disappoint.”

“‘Dear friend’? And who would that friend be?” asked Katsumi, tensing slightly as she ran through a mental list of everyone not herein assembled who had cause to be aware of her existence, and found only Apostles.

Mercédès cocked her head in confusion, but then the light of recollection blossomed behind her golden eyes. “Ah, yes, of course. She  _ did  _ say something like this was likely to happen. My dear, I speak of Mami of the Threefold Tomoe, your sister.”

The cogs that turned in Katsumi’s mind suddenly ground to a  _ screeching  _ halt. “My sister is dead.”

“She told me you might say that, yes,” Mercédès replied, nodding in understanding, and giving Katsumi the distinct impression that the prince was trying to  _ console  _ her. “Rest assured that I have been apprised of the…rather grisly…series of events that led to your separation. She laments it greatly. Why, when first I met her, all beaten and bruised, she simply  _ could not stop  _ speaking of you. I counselled her to have faith that you would survive without her intervention, and I am beyond pleased to know that I have not given the woman false hope. I have told entirely too many lies in the interest of keeping those who would rather die striving for happiness. I am glad that for once, I am not forced to add to that burden.”

Dimly, she became aware that she must be dissociating, as she could no longer feel her limbs, nor her torso, and indeed, she was certain that the prince was addressing someone else entirely with her words. Taking stock of the situation, she was aware of Ástríðr’s tension, standing as though a ramrod was aligning her spine, as well as the shock in the bearings of the other members of the party. Not at the fact that someone claiming to be her sister yet lived, though, but rather at the identity of that person. Apparently, Mami of the Threefold Tomoe was a household name in these parts. That was something she could latch onto, something far, far less world-shattering while still mostly relevant to the situation at hand.

“How do the rest of you know the name ‘Mami of the Threefold Tomoe?’” Katsumi heard herself asking, only just beginning to fight her way out of her dissociative haze.

“She’s a member of the Warriors of Light, the most famous adventuring company in the world,” explained Kyomi. “A white mage. The greatest of our generation.”

Kagura snorted.

“I said  _ our generation,  _ you magnificent dunce,” snapped Kyomi, punctuating it with a smack on her sister’s shoulder even as her voice ground with irritation. “Last time I checked, a thirty-five year age difference is way too broad for two people to be considered a part of the same generation!”

There was that chiming laugh again, though this time it was more of a giggle. “Your friends are very lively, Katsumi dear.”

Katsumi nodded. “They are. It took me off-guard, as my sister and I never… It was very different, how my sister and I interacted.”

“I can see that. Mami is very…how shall I say this…prickly?” Mercédès’s smile became one of commiseration. “Very particular about just about everything, and not exactly the most patient of people to boot.”

“That does indeed sound like my sister,” Katsumi remarked, a harsh chuff of mirthless laughter bubbling free of her gorge unbidden. “The sibling I know is very spirited. Or at least, she was, once…”

“Indeed. I will admit she only showed her true self after quite a bit of coaxing. Her recovery was a…difficult process. But she came out of the other end more or less whole.” The prince looked down for a moment, before returning her unsettlingly pleasant gaze to Katsumi. “Regardless, I wanted to see you for myself before telling my friend. She has quite enough to worry about without chasing smoke and mirrors and false alarms. Now that I am assured that the reports were accurate and that you do indeed yet live, I shall send word along to her. My mother has had the reward for the service you have done our fair city this day delivered, and as an additional show of goodwill, the dwarf Maerwhentt has been removed from his post, his predatory behaviours uncovered, and a report of his misconduct filed with the main branch in Rosenfaire. His sister Gwenett has been asked to substitute until such time as a new guild head has arrived, and has been suitably compensated for the task. As we now have full access to the deposed head’s ledgers, we have erased the incurred debts, as they were allotted to you in defiance of proper protocol. I, that is,  _ we,  _ expect no repayment, as this is done in observance of the debt of gratitude we owe your sister. May you continue to serve Maelnaulde, her people, and the citizens of the Free Cities.”

Katsumi nodded absently, and the prince nodded to her in turn, walking gracefully past her as her mother smoothly retrieved her shield, grabbing a full-length scarlet shoulder-cloak lined with gold filigree and secured with a clasp that strongly resembled a laurel vine, and fell in line just behind her daughter.

“Oh, and Sonja? Your presence is dearly missed at court. It is quite dull without my dearest companion. I trust I shall see more of you in the near future?”

Katsumi distantly heard Sonja gulp a little, occupied more with the shocking change of tone. Gone was the pleasant, pure piety, and in its place was a voice that was coquettish, but firm, and what it uttered was clearly anything  _ but _ a request.

“I shall endeavour to not disappoint, Your Grace,” Sonja replied, her voice tight and high in her throat.

The prince made a small, prim noise of displeasure. “I suppose that shall do at present. Though I  _ do  _ hope that you will dispense with such formal nonsense upon our next meeting. Else, I am afraid I may be forced to detain you until you learn your error. Though, do not be overly alarmed—the dungeons are hardly conducive to the teaching of such lessons. Regardless, I bid you farewell, Uncle Tandem, Aunt Tsuyu. And…it was nice to meet you, Katsumi. Mami is as a sister to me, and if you and I were to be even half so well-acquainted, I would be elated. Ja ne!”

“Itterasshai,” Katsumi responded weakly.

The door opened and closed, and Katsumi’s knees faltered for a moment as the pressure swiftly abated the establishment, the sudden release stealing the tense strength from her body.

“Well then…”

Almost as one the band turned to the new, unfamiliar (to Katsumi) voice.

It was a woman. Her long, straight hair was inky-black, her skin a relatively light, yet vibrant, healthy tone, tanned but not especially deeply, more likely due to travel than farmwork or any sort of special activity to darken her flesh. Her facial structure was strong, still feminine, but unmistakably predatory, and more hardy than most, her voice quiet and softly sibilant like a drawn blade. And then the woman looked at Katsumi directly, locking eyes with her.

In that moment, Katsumi knew the woman bore the face of Death.

It was the eyes, she knew. The pale blue of them was cold, not like ice, but like the feeling that steals into one’s limbs as they run out of air and begin to drown. It was creeping, calm, frightfully indifferent, plucking a particularly harmonious string of existential dread inside of her. And all of a sudden Katsumi could only see how gaunt the woman looked in a certain light, her cheeks a touch  _ too  _ angular, her cheekbones a touch  _ too  _ pronounced, her dark brows casting perhaps  _ slightly _ deeper shadows over her gaze than absolutely necessary.

“ _ That  _ was certainly something.”

* * *

“Worth putting in the effort to arrive early, Yuri?”

The woman shrugged, lifting a porcelain saucer, an ochoko, Katsumi remembered, up to her lips and downing it in one go. “I’d say that much is still open for debate. Still. Very high-profile new stray you’ve gone and adopted, Tanny.”

Tandem winced at that. “You  _ know  _ I hate that nickname.”

“Yes, and turnabout is fair play. I hate being called Yuri, you hate being called Tanny. Now we’re even.” The woman picked up the tokkuri on the table before her and set to work refilling the ochoko. “You’ve also done a piss-poor job of teaching your brats to be polite, it seems. It’s been what, three, four years?”

“Hey, Aunt Yuriya,” Ástríðr greeted, her inflections unusually terse.

“Hey kid. Your sister grown a spine yet, or were you just taking one for the team?” the woman Katsumi realised must be Yuriya the Sword Saint asked with bluntness that would shame a warhammer.

“I’ve grown a spine, Aunt Yuriya,” Sonja protested weakly.

The Sword Saint’s eyebrows climbed slightly as she raised and knocked another drink back. “Hmm. I’ll believe  _ that _ when I see it. Words are wind, kid, and steel sings  _ ever _ so much more sweetly.”

Then Yuriya’s deathly gaze swung from the paladin to Katsumi, fixing on her almost automatically, before pausing, the Sword Saint’s eyes growing slightly wider. She looked away with a small grimace, placing down the white ochoko and standing from the table to approach Madam Tsuyu. Tandem’s sister leaned in to mutter something into Tsuyu’s ear, and it was as though everything, even the dust falling from the rafters, ceased.

The next moment, the Sword Saint was on her back, Madam Tsuyu’s clenched fist extended in the follow-through. There was a hardness to the madam’s gaze that made the admonition she had given Kagura that morning look  _ spongy _ by comparison.

Yuriya recovered quickly, and looked to her brother, only to find almost literal daggers flying from Tandem’s eyes.

All of this murderous, stand-offish tension shattered a moment later.

“I had no idea you were a cuckquean, sis.”

Kyomi’s words were whispered, but by no means discreet, and it snapped the three older adults out of their immediate and overt enmity. The Sword Saint huffed, and strode briskly over to them. Effortlessly, she grabbed Kagura around the waist and lifted her up into something that looked like a bridal carry but felt like a fireman carry to look upon it, the swift motion exposing her tapered ear. A full sister, then, Katsumi registered. But then Yuriya stood before her, almost fully two heads taller than she, and fixed Katsumi with her gaze once more.

Something within her reacted, realised that this was no time for fear or trepidation, and looked back at her, meeting her gaze evenly. “Is there aught you wish to discuss?”

The silence persisted for several protracted, pregnant moments, but then a smile sharp as a blade cut across Yuriya’s face. It was slightly Cheshire, and not-so-slightly falconine, yet Katsumi was devoid of fear in that moment, and felt no need to back down.

Finally, she spoke.

“That look in your eyes is close. But you’re still just a cheap imitation.”

And like that, the bird of prey lost interest in her, turning away and walking up the stairs, presumably towards Kagura’s chambers. When Yuriya was out of sight, Katsumi was suddenly very much aware of how suffocating the atmosphere had become. She felt everyone’s eyes on her, felt the press of their emotions against her mind, and in turn began to suffocate, herself. She dared not look at Ástríðr, dared not meet the gaze boring holes into the back of her head. Oddly, Sonja’s own was much more comforting. There was disgust in there, revulsion, hatred,  _ rage,  _ for one shining moment before the elf’s composure reasserted itself, and Katsumi took solace in the knowledge that for whatever reason, Sonja  _ despised  _ her, and had simply been hiding it.  _ That  _ was familiar, much more so than the concern and  _ care  _ in the rest of them. She could ground herself in the withering scrutiny of Sonja’s hatred, and return to herself in time, compose the face she showed to the world one more time.

And so that was what she did.

_ In. Out. _

_ Inhale. Exhale. _

“How may I be of aid tonight, Madam Tsuyu?”

Her question seemed to cause some of them to recoil ever so slightly, and still surprised the rest, save for the madam herself, whose gaze, while understanding, strongly resembled the expression of someone who had just swallowed a lemon. “You’ll be working the floor as a server tonight, Katsumi. Sonja, you’re upstairs, and pay close attention. The last thing we need is a corpse to dispose of because some drunken sod walked in on what’s going on in Kagura’s room. Ástríðr, you make sure to guard Kyomi. It’s likely with less active workers tonight, the chances of someone attempting something truly  _ unwise  _ are higher than normal.”

“…!” Ástríðr’s wordless, almost reflexive, protest was as apparent as it was perplexing. What was wrong with the security arrangements for the night…? Had Ástríðr thought to go out whoring on her own tonight?

The thought set frost to crusting the insides of Katsumi’s lungs, but she shoved the unpleasant sensation from her mind.  _ Of course  _ Ástríðr visited whorehouses and brothels and bordellos. Had she not said as much? It would be ludicrous of her to insist that that practise cease, and only slightly less nonsensical to feel uncomfortable at the prospect of its continuation.  _ Control yourself. Don’t let your mind run away with you. You’ll only get yourself hurt. Again. _

“Don’t, Ástríðr. I’m  _ really  _ not in the mood to argue this with you,” said Madam Tsuyu, her tone terse, her diction harsh and slightly accented. “Not tonight.”

Ástríðr’s tension was a palpable, physical force that ran through Katsumi even from a distance. When she spoke, her words were clipped, as though passing through gritted teeth. “Yes,  _ Mother. _ ”

With that, the three of them that remained dispersed to their posts, and Katsumi approached Madam Tsuyu. “Is there aught of which I should be made aware that concerns my task for tonight?”

Madam Tsuyu sighed, and her slender, elegant fingers began to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Yes, I suppose I cannot expect you to serve adequately if you are not made aware of what your job entails. Let’s be about it, then.”

* * *

_ Seething.  _ It was the only word that really captured her feelings on the current situation.

Before tonight, Ástríðr had always…well, not  _ liked;  _ she was fairly certain that only the surviving members of her parents’ old adventuring company and Kagura actually  _ liked _ Yuriya the Sword Saint, but  _ respected  _ her aunt. Indeed, Ástríðr had always  _ respected  _ her aunt, respected her prowess, her honesty, her directness, her strength, and many other things besides, even as she was put on edge at the sight of her. That wasn’t uncommon; the title of ‘Sword Saint’ was hardly saintly in the conventional sense, instead speaking of an almost unrivalled trail of mutilated corpses in the wake of the one who bore the moniker, after all, and so the danger that Yuriya posed, given that she freely, remorselessly, and with relative impunity engaged in the acts that had made her famous initially, was readily apparent even to the dimmest of dullards.

That had all changed tonight.

How.

_ DARE. _

She.

The only consolation was that Mother had punched the bitch almost across the room at her comment, at the threat that Yuriya had made against Katsumi’s life.

_ You keep adopting mongrels, and I’ll have to start culling the herd. _

The memory of those words, picked up by her ears, the ears of a trained musician, set her blood to a roaring, frothing boil every time she had managed to wrestle it back down to even a moderately-belligerent simmer. It took everything she had in that moment to restrain herself from stepping forth and trying to bludgeon Yuriya to death, so much so that no amount of risk assessment was able to help, and had Mother not immediately decked the cunt, the bard was certain that the fraying tether she had on her rage would have snapped.

And then  _ Sonja…! _

No. She shut that line of thought, and all of them that ran concurrent, down ruthlessly. She was on the verge, she knew, her rage heightening to such an intensity that it began to grind against itself like a whetstone and blade, on the sheerest possible edge of the tranquil fury that was the origin of many of the scars she now bore upon her body. No thoughts. No emotions. Not a one. Complete lockdown.

It seemed only the space of a breath had passed before the scent on the air hit her nose. Poison, she immediately knew, but it was not airborne; it was the smell of a specific flower, but somehow not at all floral. It was belladonna, the aroma that reached her, but cut with the tang of blood and overwhelmingly carnal. She recognised this smell, she realised. It was not some perfume or extract, but rather, impossibly, the smell of Katsumi’s hair and skin, wiped clean of the scented rose oils her mother had used to bathe the girl.

The recognition brought her back to herself despite her efforts, and anew did her rage begin to rise and surge. She was fuming at what had happened all over when Katsumi entered her view, standing before her, eyes shifting anywhere but her, until with a concerted effort, the girl looked the bard in the face, resolute.

“I wanted to apologise, first of all. It was not my intention to put your planned… _ activities _ for tonight on hold,” she began, and Ástríðr’s rage all at once halted and reversed into what she could only call profound confusion. “I am unaware, I’m afraid, of the…of the going rate for the type of… _ companion _ with whom you typically occupy yourself on nights such as this, but as I hold myself at least partly culpable for the current state of affairs that affronts you so, and find myself powerless to ameliorate the situation unilaterally, I feel it would only be proper for me to compensate you for such things so that you can… _ indulge  _ tomorrow night.

“To that end,” she said, taking a deep breath, clearly struggling with what she was saying even as Ástríðr was still entirely nonplussed on what she was attempting to communicate, “I have decided to relinquish my share of the quest’s earnings to you, that I might repay the balance of how my presence has caused you to be inconvenienced tonight. I pray that that will be sufficient, as I currently am devoid of alternate means to achieve the same goal, but that shall, I suppose, ultimately be at your discretion. Despite that, I pray you have a…a tolerable night, Ástríðr. Now, I must go. We shall shortly be open, as I understand it, and Madam Tsuyu is awaiting my return.”

Katsumi bowed stiffly at the waist, and then walked away with a touch more celerity than was strictly necessary as she left the corridor and walked down the stairs. The footfalls of her deliberate gait got more and more distant, until they changed subtly, impacting on the floorboards of the ground level, the tavern. It wasn’t until she heard the beginnings of the usual crowd of patrons trickling in to start their night that Katsumi’s words finally caught up to her, and her mind finally registered what the girl meant to articulate.

And then, it clicked. It was as though a veil lifted from her eyes, realisation,  _ revelation  _ striking her like a black mage’s Thundaga, the gears clicking together, finally in their proper place, and the picture it painted of the day’s events until that point was so agonisingly simple and so painfully obvious that she felt like an absolute imbecile for not realising it sooner.

Despite this, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Ástríðr smiled. 

It was clear to her, now, how Katsumi felt. As she reviewed every word, every motion, every action, every  _ reaction  _ the girl had taken over the course of the day, it was as obvious as the sunrise how she felt and what she thought, how deeply she had  _ misjudged _ how Ástríðr felt, misinterpreted every word out of the elf’s own mouth, and in turn caused the bard to misjudge  _ her. _ It was a trap, she realised, an overt and self-evident double bind, resulting from the fact that Katsumi was very good—though far from perfect—at not displaying her feelings to the world; she could compartmentalise and school her expressions, appear impassive and unaffected regardless of what her actual level of investment in the situation truly was, and Ástríðr would be kicking herself viciously for falling for it were she not already grinning like a fool.

The problem was clear as day. Katsumi did not understand how Ástríðr felt about her. And as self-evident as the problem was the solution.

Her heart raced, beating out of time as Ástríðr moved swiftly and with purpose to the stairwell,  _ studiously  _ avoiding the suspicion in her sister’s pointed gaze. She would deal with  _ Sonja  _ later. Much later, preferably. She had more important things to worry about, like not stumbling down the stairs because she was too excited by the euphoria welling up to bursting in her chest and raging through her veins, clouding her mind with such riotous emotions she felt like they were moments from erupting through her skin; she planted her feet on each step, taking each stride forth down the stairs deliberately enough to not slip while not slowing her procession overmuch, and restrained a sigh of relief when she finally stepped onto the tavern floor.

She had grown up here. This place was her home, and there was no greater reminder of that than the sight before her, the warm lighting setting the room in joyous hues fit for carousing, fitting for the sanctuary that it was, the tables packed with the downtrodden of all walks, from down-on-their-luck craftsmen to old, grizzled sellswords to boys, orphans most like, still wet behind the ears but carrying the distinct pallour and sickly countenance that came with a recent first bloodying. They were gearing up to get into full swing, and Katsumi was already weaving her way deftly among them, her baldric and satchel shed to leave her in an appearance that would not look out of place on a true, professional barmaid. Tankards went down, and young hands began to wander until older hands slapped them away, the experienced patrons knowing that it would be a uniquely bad idea to overstay their welcome in such a fashion and not willing to risk ejection from their Edenian haven. The fire of the oven in the kitchen surged through the area, a little marvel of her home’s design that channelled heat into the rest of the building to ward off the biting night chill, and Mother stood in the corner of the room, her jade eyes fixed on Katsumi as she wove her way through, the look in her eyes one of instruction and assessment, a gaze with which the elf twins had much familiarity, having gone through childhood and adolescence under its exacting yet fair scrutiny. Her luscious, plum-hued lips embraced the end of her kiseru as she nursed at it in deliberation, while Father worked behind the bar, pouring the contents of multiple kegs of liquid courage. 

Before tonight, in a situation on which much hinged, she would down a tankard herself, finding the pleasant buzzing burn in her gut emboldening. She found she needed no such encouragement tonight; the fury that had so troubled her earlier was now raging within as fiery, ravenous desire, surging through her limbs and down her core, and none of the fears that had plagued and unbalanced her in the mithril mines could reach her now. Not tonight. Not with her newfound understanding branded into the forefront of her mind, written in flame upon the very fabric of her soul.

A breath. She started forward again. This was her home, certainly, but that didn’t matter. Nor did the wry quirk of Mother’s lips that she spied in her periphery move her from her course. Not now, and she found it difficult to comprehend the idea that it might ever again in the days and years to follow. There was a yawning emptiness, a hunger unlike any other, that dominated her every thought, and the only sustenance that could slake it stood before her, her eyes like amethysts glinting in the gentle luminescence even as they widened in stunned surprise, her petite mouth with its full lips parted ever so slightly, strong yet slender dark brows climbing into her forehead.

She was a vision.

Five steps. Four. Three. Two. One. One arm surged about the girl’s waist as the other caught her upper back, across her oddly avian shoulder-blades, enveloping their span. Their bodies crashed against each other, her lover’s svelte form pressed up against her in slight helplessness, in wondrous, supple supplication, slightly stiff in surprise and shock. Ástríðr’s control did not snap; it shattered into thousands of miniscule shards that tinkled in her mind’s eye like little bells in beatifically destructive harmony. She lunged forth, passing through the set of curling horns undeterred to claim Katsumi’s mouth in a searing, devouring kiss, and the girl froze for the barest flicker of a moment before her body relaxed, moulding to the elf’s own in what was, despite Ástríðr’s extensive experience in the arena, the most overwhelmingly and profoundly erotic display to which she had ever borne witness.

Ecstasy ripped through her, sharpening every sense and painting the world around her in wondrous contrasts and halcyon hues, but it was not enough; her appetite was whetted, her desperate, wild craving blazed to primal refulgence, the crowd’s roaring cheers providing a magnificent accompaniment to the redoubling crescendo of her need. Her hand clasped into a claw-like grip at the lithe yet full swell of her lover’s scaled hip, her fingers squeezing greedily to the point of pain, eliciting a small, sharp gasp from the girl in her grasp, the girl she would never release, never relinquish, could never even consider the possibility of rejecting without feeling intensely, mortally sick. Something bestial and base roused insistently within her, constricting mercilessly in the base of her abdomen at the sound, and yet she wanted  _ more. _

She broke the kiss suddenly, and as though burned, her hand at the girl’s waist sprung away, lunging forth to the low neckline of her blouse,  _ not nearly low enough.  _ With a single monstrous tug, she tore it open, the odd foreign breast-binding Katsumi seemed to like giving way together with it without so much as a heartbeat’s span of resistance. Katsumi gave a sound of protest, but Ástríðr could barely discern it over the roaring rush of blood in her ears, the incessant percussive pounding of her heart that sent intoxicating fulmination sparking in a mad, senseless frenzy through her veins coupling with the low vibration she felt emerging from her diaphragm, unbidden. 

She tightened her hold on the girl’s shoulder, and in the grips of a sudden passion, a lunatic impulse, whirled her around so abruptly Ástríðr would have been concerned about dislocating her shoulder in any other context. Her arm reasserted its control, conquering the span of her lover’s collarbone and pressing the not-inconsiderable swell of the girl’s tailed posterior flush against her own furious member, whose painful engorging she had not had the awareness to take notice of before the soft, supple give of Katsumi’s flesh touched against it, sending sparks thundering throughout her with a small hiss.

The arm that had torn the blouse to little more than ribbons now raced around Katsumi’s narrow waist once more, dropping lower to span her hips from one lush curve to the other. The modest,  _ perfect  _ swell of the new girl’s bosom elicited wolf-whistles and other such appreciative gestures that were entirely lascivious to various diminishing degrees of decency, and it would have boiled Ástríðr’s blood mere  _ hours _ ago. Yet the bard’s inner beast, the savage, ravenous monster that brought the storm, revelled in it, in the displaying of her absolute dominance of what these men and patrons saw and audibly desired, but could never have, basked in the glorious futility of their entreaties.

Ástríðr drew closer over Katsumi’s shoulder, the elf dragging her tongue up the side of her lover’s face, and muttering a hair’s breadth from the girl’s horn. “Look at them all. They covet that which they cannot have. And they  _ cannot _ have you, I won’t allow them to even  _ consider _ it, not for one  _ second  _ more. You honestly thought that your money was worth more to me than you? How cute. Keep it. I  _ will  _ bed you tonight. Right now.”

The shudder that went down the girl’s elegant spine sent such  _ delicious  _ sensations through Ástríðr’s body where they pressed against each other, and from the profuse flush that set Katsumi’s cheeks ablaze together with the glassy haze that shrouded her eyes, Ástríðr knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was not from revulsion or any sort of true fear. At the girl’s halting, unsteady nod, Ástríðr grinned from ear to ear, and all but  _ dragged  _ the girl back up the stairwell. Her mother and the rest of the tavern could respectfully get bent for all she cared at that precise moment, and any moon-addled bastard who thought it a capital idea to take liberties with Kyomi deserved what was coming to him. 

There was no way to express the sensation roiling inside her. Triumph was too small. All other words failed. Like a woman possessed did she eventually lift and carry Katsumi up the steps and down the corridor into her own chambers, almost giddy as she swept across the threshold.

It was a whirling maelstrom as soon as she kicked the door closed, her lover landing on Ástríðr’s bed with a sharp exhale, and not a heartbeat passed before Ástríðr was once more upon her, unable to get enough, the feeling of her skin and scales, the smell and texture of her flesh and hair, the sounds of her pleasured whimpers and stifled moans exciting her craving, her  _ addiction,  _ yes, she had partaken once and now could not think to live without it, to rage higher and hotter.

“You are  _ mine,  _ my love. Do you hear me? Mine, and no other’s. I will not be separated from you. We will not be parted. You are  _ mine,  _ and you will  _ continue  _ to be mine long after your final breath has passed between your lips. You are  _ mine,  _ to ravish, to adore, to love, to  _ devour,  _ and I will hear no protest on the matter!” Ástríðr sounded half-mad in her sudden impassioned ravings to her  _ own  _ ears, but as Katsumi’s face erupted in shock, then melted into welling tears and a smile that was blinding despite its size and its tenderness, she knew with certainty that they had been exactly what her love had needed to hear. Which was brilliant, because Ástríðr did not believe that she could have stopped herself from saying them, and the extent and intensity of her absolute conviction in their truth made apostasy out of fanaticism. 

A charged, rosy tint settled upon her view, obscuring her awareness, and suddenly Katsumi’s moans became harder to bite back, whimpers turning into pleas, rapture stealing throughout Ástríðr as she heard the almost incoherent ramblings tumble from the girl’s perfect lips that she longed to bruise and swell with her own, the flexing and tensing muscles that shifted beneath pale flesh stoking the elf’s longing to spend an eternity inscribing the extent of her need onto every ilm of her lover’s skin—figuratively, of course, she would never blaspheme the uninterrupted alabaster of her pliant form with a blade—to a fevered, maddening pitch.   
Incensed, Ástríðr’s hips finally lurched forward; and when she felt Katsumi’s womanly warmth enclose around her as she buried herself into her love’s innermost depths, the draconian girl’s body arching upwards into her like the bent limbs of a bow, the entire expanse of Ástríðr’s mind went blessedly blank, her every thought enveloped and subsumed into the white void that spanned indefinitely in every direction. A slow expression of senseless paradise shifted her features, and as she looked down, she saw the moon and the stars in her love’s eyes.

_ God is in His Heaven, and all’s right with the world…  _


	9. Blackwyrm

Though Ástríðr loved and looked up to her mother, there had always been a distance there, a boundary she dared not cross, not because she thought she would be begrudged the chance to become closer to the woman who gave birth to her, but rather because the former dancer, laying claim to citizenship in a nation  _ long _ since fallen—the last citizen of Lycoris besides Tsuyu having perished half a century before the beginning of the Great War—was in many ways larger than life. There was a quiet power that radiated off of her, capable of suffocating a room given time, a sense of inevitability to her existence that made her difficult to approach even if she had literally given birth to the one seeking her counsel.

As a result, when Ástríðr wondered one day, rather idly, what love was, what it was like, it was not to her mother she went, but to her father, who, despite being chronologically far older than his physical appearance would suggest, was immensely more approachable than the head of their family unit. Tandem was somewhat famously inarticulate concerning matters of the heart, but this led to her getting some of the most succinct, simple, complicated, and at the time, frustrating, advice anyone had ever offered. 

“Love is hard to explain, and it’s different for everyone. But for me, kid…there was my life before I met Tsuyu, and my life after I met Tsuyu. I think that’s the best way I can put it.”

It was frustrating at the time, because the idea that meeting a single person could so thoroughly recontextualise the world around her was all but anathema to Ástríðr’s worldview at the time, and had continued to be thoroughly anathema to her…

Until four days ago, when Katsumi had wandered into her life.

Now she understood. And on a similarly deep and intrinsic level, she knew now that if she lived a thousand thousand years, she would never be able to find words that better described how she was feeling right then than the words he had used himself.

There was a portrait of passion painted on the pallour of Katsumi’s skin. Blotches of red patched their way across her limbs and midsection, bruises just beginning to form, and Ástríðr would have felt just the  _ slightest  _ bit uncomfortable if each and every one did not bring to the forefront of her mind the vivid memory of how her love had writhed and gasped and moaned at every point before she had finally collapsed from exhaustion. 

Ástríðr’s hunger for her was not sated, but it had subsided for a moment, simmering instead of boiling over, and it was such that the elf believed that she could ravish her love without interruption from that moment until the end of time, and never successfully satisfy that ravenous craving that roared awake at the touch of alabaster skin and scale, at the brushing of silky raven locks through her fingers, at the piercing of saturnine smoulders and the dull throb in her abdomen at tantalysing, almost bacchanalian whimpers slipping free of the temptation rendered into flesh that was Katsumi’s mouth, all of which seemed, at times, to be unconsciously committed to quietly, passively urging Ástríðr on to ever greater veneries.

Now Katsumi’s tail slithered about Ástríðr’s thigh in the girl’s slumber, and though the sensation of the prehensile scaled appendage moving against her of its own accord denied Ástríðr the ability to cool her racing blood enough to finally find rest herself, she could not say with any degree of honesty that she would rather have it any other way.

Absently, the elf’s hands trailed across the other’s body, one hand playing with her hair and stroking the apparently very sensitive hard horns that served in place of ears, the other dancing down the softly heaving abdomen, flesh moving over shockingly little muscle with each inhale and exhale. Each spot that made Katsumi’s lithe, unconscious form shiver and shudder, Ástríðr made sure to note and memorise to find later. Her substantial sexual prowess served well enough to allow her to brute force her way through every other sexual encounter she had had, but not this one; no matter how well she did, how wondrous and fantastical the reactions she managed to tease out of the drahn’s inexperienced yet promising body, there was a secondary hunger, adjacent to the first, which desired,  _ coveted  _ really, those heights of sensation that lay far above and beyond anything the girl had known to be possible. The very thought of the sorts of slatternly faces she might be able to cause her beloved to make was enough to stoke the elf’s fires to astonishing, almost empyrean rebirth.

Just then, Katsumi shifted in her sleep and pressed herself closer to Ástríðr, fully flush and beginning to snuggle into her larger form. Firmly nestled between the halves of the girl’s surprisingly plush rear as she was now, Ástríðr froze as parts of her throbbed eagerly. It seemed on some level, her body was not content with allowing the girl to rest. It took a few moments for Ástríðr’s mind to calm from its blank state, and while she was still mulling over how uncomfortable even considering taking that liberty made her, which was strange enough for her, her lover turned over and fixed Ástríðr with a bleary, lidded violet gaze. “You’re very insistent.”

“ _ You’re  _ very desirable,” Ástríðr shot back on reflex, shocked to realise that perhaps for the first time in her life, she truly meant it. “Go back to sleep, love.”

Katsumi, flushed in a rose hue and smiling indulgently, not conscious enough to affect her normal level of mortification, turned fully over and nestled Ástríðr in between her thighs. “I was a maiden when first you bedded me, not an idiot. If I was uncomfortable with the idea of you taking your pleasure on me while I sleep, I would not have slept the night.”

“Katsumi…”

The girl’s arms wrapped sleepily around Ástríðr’s broad back. “Come to me, my love. Take succour in me and find rest. You need it just like the rest of us. I give you leave, carte blanche, whenever you should find yourself in need of it.”

Ástríðr saw red and rose, those words filtering through her mind; Katsumi’s lips finding her own, moving lazily and with a drowsy languor, was the shattering of the final seal of her self-control. She moved to engulf her lover, and saw Paradise as the girl’s folds parted to welcome her.

And so that was how Ástríðr at last managed to subside into a trance, nestled within her lover’s wet warmth, nimble, slender digits dancing absently across her scarred skin and lulling her to sweet respite.

At last, all was well.

* * *

Midday was fast approaching when the summons came. Yuriya, ever-diligent, had risen with the dawn and brought Kagura out to the small-to-moderate-sized lot behind the bordello, seeing to the vii’s training until the younger woman was too worn and exhausted to hold her sword steady, her hands trembling despite her will, her skin slick with perspiration, at which point, the Sword Saint gave her lover leave to bathe; and it was in such a position that Ástríðr found her, sitting at one of the tavern tables and drinking as much water as Tandem could get into her hands, freshly-bathed for certain, but evoking the image of a half-drowned dog from her shivering. 

Yuriya, ineffable and indomitable as always, leaned upright against a far corner of the room, toying with a Far Eastern dagger, a tant ō , Ástríðr recalled. Her aunt had always been intrigued by the weaponry native to lands and peoples half a world away, and this was no different; her weapon of choice, a massive sword called an  ōdachi by the name of Onimaru that was rumoured to be not only one of the five greatest blades in the Far East, but also the most malevolent, was propped up in its lacquered foreign scabbard against the wall next to her.

“Kyomi is still abed, I presume?”

Ástríðr only just managed to suppress a flinch; for the life of her, she could never grow accustomed to how quietly her mother could move when she wished to do so.

To his credit, Father was not so affected. “She had a bit of a night, and yesterday was hardly spent idle. I thought it would be fine if she took a few hours’ extra rest; the potions will get her out and about, but they will not prevent the damage incurred from straining her body beyond what she’s used to, and I thought we’d rather have her healthy.”

“Mm,” Mother intoned, and Ástríðr could see her nodding in her mind’s eye. With a whisper of expensive silk, the other woman glided past her and down into the tavern proper. “You made the correct decision. And Ástríðr, dear, I trust your night was… _ enlightening? _ ”

Ástríðr had gone through a phase when she was younger of hating that knowing glint of mischief in the jade of her mother’s eyes that showed whenever a plot or scheme of hers bore fruit, but that exact glint was so quintessentially Tsuyu that she eventually came to the conclusion that it was not worth the energy holding that much enmity towards such an inevitability demanded. Not to mention, this time Mother had a right to be so quietly gleeful. Ástríðr sighed and nodded, a faint smile on her face that broadened unconsciously as she recalled Katsumi’s beautifully debauched body in soft repose. “Very much so…”

Mother’s smile at that moment was so stereotypically matronly that it was unlike her, and it threw Ástríðr just a bit off-balance. “I’m glad to hear it. And from that I am led to believe that you left our newcomer intact, which, to coin an old phrase, ‘sparks joy.’”

Tsuyu turned away from her, and as she moved, Ástríðr could see the quiet fatigue in her gait, a crack forming in her armour of preternatural elegance. As the older woman reached the bar, the words bubbled free of the elf’s mouth. “How was last night after we retired? I apologise for leaving you so suddenly short-staffed…”

Mother had her kiseru in between her lips, snapping her fingers to call forth the spark of magic needed to set the kizami alight. She made a dismissive gesture with her free hand once the spark caught, and inhaled the smoke before letting it pass from her lungs, slow and steady. “Think nothing of it. It was my intent to present a situation that would allow you two to find your nerve and finally resolve all the lingering tension in the air the past three days. And besides, I think we  _ both  _ know your contrition is only skin-deep~.”

The light of devious innuendo and good-natured mockery shone in Tsuyu’s eyes, and Ástríðr could only sigh.  _ This _ was the mother she knew. “You’re correct.”

Tsuyu snorted. “Of course I am. I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”

A knock sounded at the door, and the already quiet room fell into a tense silence. Mother wheeled around and shot off rapid-fire hand signals to her husband and her sister-in-law as she approached the door. Tandem moved quickly to the back, to arm himself and remain in hiding should an assailant be attempting to gain entry, in the unlikely event that Aunt Yuriya alone, who was herself surreptitiously moving closer to her blade, could not stop them.

“Hello?! I come bearing a message from our honoured prince and the sovereign of our beloved city, Her Grace Mercédès Charlotte Lucerne!”

There was a collective exhale. Estinien’s voice was familiar, and they knew that no threat stood at their door; Dame Rienna’s squire was more likely to come for lessons on traditional Lycorian flower arrangement from Madam Tsuyu than to have the idea of harming any of them so much as cross his mind. He was airy, flighty, and more than a little timid, but he was also dependable, trustworthy, and loyal.

Mother opened the door wide, greeting the rail-thin boy with a plum-hued smile. “Well then, this is a surprise! Your master was here just last night, but never gave us cause to expect you. Do come in and make yourself comfortable, Estinien. It’s been too long. How can we help you? Tutelage? Succour? Sustenance?”

“None, Lady Tsuyu, as I do not come to fraternise, but rather I am here on official business, I’m afraid,” Estinien replied smoothly. He handed forth a sealed scroll. “A missive of official summons, for one Lady Katsumi of the Fallen Rain. I was told I would find her here.”

The relief that had suffused Ástríðr flashed to ice in her veins. What business did Sonja’s paramour have with her beloved…?

The ice blazed to sudden searing heat.

An odd sound, like the death-cries of a waterfowl after its neck had been wrung, reached Ástríðr’s ears the next moment, and then she felt the creaking shudder of a rigid structure on the verge of shattering, somewhere between stone and wood. Faintly, she could feel things on her hands, with no more purchase or strength than the swatting paw of a common house-cat. And then she returned to herself fully.

She knew this state. She had tried to avoid entering it the previous night, in fact; though she could not remember a time before she met Katsumi that she was not angry, there were times in her life when that very same tempestuous, volatile ire reached new and unspoken heights. In those times, the rage ground against itself like a blade on a whetstone, until finally it honed itself to an edge keen as a razor; in that moment, she entered into a state of fury so absolute that it was all but indistinguishable from monastic peace. A state of hyper-awareness, equal and opposite to the state of contemplation she had sometimes heard called ‘zen,’ was what awaited her in those moments, signalling the complete repurposing of all of her mental faculties, bent in their entirety towards slaughter. Of course, in those times that she could remember that feeling, she also recalled that it took a little bit to work up to that altered state of mind, and over time, she had learned to identify the signs and work towards curtailing them with all haste.

And yet since the first time she bedded Katsumi, this was the third time that that switch occurred without buildup or warning; instantaneously, almost, she was that unstoppable slayer that exemplified what she became when that feeling took hold. 

Before she knew it, she was the Storm.

And now, as she stood there, fully across the room before anyone around her was able to react, her fingers wrapped around Estinien’s pale throat in an iron grip, closing a little more with every failed and aborted breath he took, she at once knew both that she should be very worried about this phenomenon and that she did not care one whit what she should do. This miserable scum had acted on orders that would have, in all likelihood, brought harm to Katsumi, and that simply would not do.

“It’s interesting, you know, Estinien, how many different and unique colours a person’s face can turn when they are deprived of air. I’d imagine that, were I given to portraiture, such distinct and vivid hues would be nothing short of inspirational,” Ástríðr mused conversationally. “One wonders how many more you might shift into given time and sufficient… _ prodding, _ shall we say?”

The squire wheezed pitifully, his fingers scrambling with a dying man’s frantic strength to pry her fingers from his neck. 

She made a wordless sound of admonition. “It seems that either our good knight-captain has been remiss in her tutelage, or you have been remiss in your attention to your studies. I mean, really, what else could possibly explain how your hands are currently prying at your throat, the place where any experienced combatant will gladly tell you until they themselves are blue in the face that your hands are of the least use in situations like these? Though, of course, I suppose it’s ultimately academic; there is no means that you could possibly bring to bear as you are at the moment that will save your life.”

“Can’t…breathe…!”

“Oh, hush now. No need to be so boorishly dramatic. At this rate, your neck will shatter and be reduced to so much bone-dust  _ long _ before you truly manage to suffocate to death,” Ástríðr chided. “I wonder…if I apply enough force, when your neck snaps, will the broken parts of your spine be launched in different directions? I’d imagine it’d be quite diverting to watch, seeing the remains of your neck pop up through your mouth while the rest of your spine shoots out of your arse… Shall we put it to the test, then, Estinien, you and I? I must admit, I am greatly looking forward to the results,  _ one way or the other… _ ”

A hand settled onto her shoulder, and that single touch sapped the murder from her veins. A calm,  _ true  _ calm, settled upon Ástríðr with all the swift force of a gale. As she turned her head to regard the person who had touched her in this state, she knew even before she caught sight of her that it was Katsumi. Anyone else would have lost an arm at best. 

True to her instincts, there she was, half-dressed but resplendent. Her violet eyes held neither judgement nor fear; understanding and a plea were what the elf saw in her love’s gaze. She acquiesced, releasing the squire and letting him fall to the ground in a heap, scrabbling at his collar and gasping for air to fill his starved lungs.

“Thank you,” Katsumi whispered to her, reaching in to kiss her cheek, and finding herself stymied when her horns prodded into the elf’s face with her lips still several centimetres from their target. The girl made to retreat, and Ástríðr could  _ feel _ the mortification rolling off of her. When she paid attention, her love was quite transparent to her, she mused; she turned her head before Katsumi could truly begin her retreat, and struck with serpentine celerity, catching the drahn’s faded-bruise lips with her own. Sparks flew in her veins, and in that moment, she knew that the only things she found more enervating than that contact also revolved around Katsumi.

When she broke the kiss, the girl’s eyes were glazed, her stare vacant and addled. Within moments, however, she returned to herself with an almost violent flush, shaking her head as though deterring insects. The amethyst orbs fixated on Estinien, finding focus in his harried form after a few beats with an avian glint.

“I hear tell that I’ve been summoned by the prince. Is that true?” Estinien made to speak, but a sharp look from Katsumi killed the words in his mangled throat. “I have no time for your likely unintelligible croaking. Nod your head or shake it. There is no need to speak.”

The squire nodded.

Katsumi bobbed her head in curt affirmation. “Thank you. Then I shall respond to her address, indirect though it may have been. You may tell the prince she may expect me anon. You are  _ not _ to breathe a word to  _ anyone  _ on the subject of what transpired here.  _ Is that clear? _ ”

The squire opened his mouth again, but Katsumi huffed. “One word from you and I allow Ástríðr to put her theory to the test, is that clear? Kami, I see why you are still a squire if you exhibit this much difficulty in remembering and following such simple instructions. You may nod, or you may shake your head. No more.”

The squire nodded again, before succumbing to a hideous fit of coughing that racked his body.

Katsumi smiled, but in it he found no mirth, only knives. “Very good. Now, I sincerely doubt this was your only task for the day, so you’d best be about your duties, my dear esquire. Run along now, boy. I’d hate to be responsible for anything untoward to come your way. I trust I am understood?”

Estinien looked as though he was about to speak, but another cough ripped its way out of his chest, and he nodded weakly.

“Well look at that. You  _ can  _ be taught. There may yet be hope for you,” Katsumi mused. Then she looked at him sharply. “Why are you still here? Shove off.”

Estinien nodded frantically and stood, bowed, and all but ran out of the door.

“You’re not going.”

Katsumi gave a shoulder-heaving sigh as she stood. Her trousers were on, her chest bound once again, and Ástríðr, having lived wearing brassieres for most of her life and even having to get them custom-made as her breasts continued to swell in spite of her musculature, could not fathom how the girl had managed such an intricate binding in such a short period of time, given that she had been sound asleep in the elf’s bed less than a quarter of an hour ago. “I  _ am  _ going, and unfortunately, I do not believe we have much of a choice. I want…I  _ need  _ to learn more about this woman who calls herself my sister, and how much both she and the prince know. About me, about the Apostles, about this entire situation. And even if that  _ wasn’t  _ the case, the prince is someone who gets what she wants, one way or another. I have no doubt that if the information she has that I lack failed to act as a sufficient lure, the next time she sends someone, it won’t be a request. She wants something from me, I think, and I have to find out what it is. And besides…she doesn’t want to hurt me. I’m not certain how, but I’m sure of it, that she would do anything in her power to ensure I do not come to harm, at least until I am no longer useful to her. If pressed, I’d call it instinct.”

Ástríðr glared, crossing her arms beneath her substantial bust. “Fine. But you’re not going alone.”

“I’ll go with her.”

Her head whipped around, Katsumi’s proximity all that stopped her from charging over there and tearing the limbs off of her sister. The image of the gaze Sonja had given Katsumi the previous night…the very memory of it boiled Ástríðr’s blood. “Is there any particular reason you’ve decided to forfeit your life today,  _ dear sister? _ ”

Sonja looked for all the world to be profoundly unaffected. “I could ask the same question of you,  _ dear sister.  _ You forget yourself. Access to the Coronet is strictly regulated, and the Silvern Basilica,  _ together with its grounds,  _ are  _ invitation-only.  _ As I am the only one here with a standing invitation, I am the only one the Crown Knights will allow to escort her.”

“ _ Burn  _ the Crown Knights. If they try and stop me, I’ll be able to climb the walls with a mountain made from their corpses!”

“True, sister, you could take the Crown Knights in a fight. All of them at once, even, and come out victorious to boot. I’ll grant you that.” Sonja’s smile narrowed, and something ever so slightly cruel lurked in her gaze. “But could you guarantee  _ her  _ survival in the process, I wonder? Can you guarantee that you could kill them all and keep her safe at the same time? You’re good, sister. Far better than me, even. But you’re not  _ that _ good.”

Ástríðr saw red, but Katsumi grabbed her shoulder, and once again, despite the obvious discrepancy in physical strength, the restraint might as well have been iron for how thoroughly it shackled her impulse to lunge for her sister’s throat.

“She’s right, you know,” Yuriya said at last, her tone laconic and edged with flippancy. “You’re  _ not  _ that good. Like it or not, if you want the stray you’ve taken to bed to remain breathing and intact, Sonja’s your best option. Your  _ only  _ option, in fact, unless you’re willing to let her go alone and take her chances with the route that she doesn’t know, through a city she’s only lived in for, what, four days? Without a map?”

“You’ve made your point,” Ástríðr bit out, her jaw working in impotent fury. “But Sonja, if there’s so much as a  _ scratch _ on her when you bring her back to me— _ which you will _ —I don’t care how she got it or who gave it to her. The bonds of our sorority will not save you from me.  _ Am. I. Clear? _ ”

“… _ Translucent. _ ”

* * *

The Rouge went on for quite a while.

Intellectually, Katsumi knew this. It had taken her quite a while to make it to the Drunken Whore that first night, as the shadows lengthened and the sun faded into memory. Yet, since then, the company had always been at least  _ somewhat  _ pleasant, so it never quite hit home for her just how  _ large  _ Maelnaulde was. To walk from one end of the city to the other could easily take a day and a half, which was, to Katsumi’s mind, at least, an absurd size for any sort of settlement. And the Rouge was far and away the largest part of the city.

Sonja was not pleasant company in the slightest. The silence between them was tense and drew out like a blade. The paladin had her sword and her shield, explaining through terse and clipped speech, as though acknowledging her as a living being worthy of regard was a great ordeal, that she was known to the Crown Knights and was therefore allowed to bear arms in their presence, a privilege that she, as a newcomer, lacked. 

And so, naked as she felt without it—and not in a good way—she left Deatheater behind.

“So tell me, drahn. How would you describe your relationship with my sister?”

Sonja’s question snapped Katsumi’s attention to her, and after the moment it took to register the query passed, her face felt aflame, and a swell of emotion surged forth, filling her to bursting with refulgence. A small sound, more akin to the utterance of a small rodent than a sentient creature, escaped her throat; she coughed and averted her gaze forcibly to cover her slip. Her mind swam and suddenly her clothes felt too tight, too constricting on her, chafing against suddenly-sensitive flesh, causing her to squirm ever so slightly as she searched frantically for the least-incriminating phrasing she could employ to describe her feelings on the subject to the elf who stood before her. “Well…Ástríðr and I… I suppose you could say we’re…entangled?”

Sonja’s shoulders tensed, and Katsumi got the distinct impression that what she had said was the wrong answer. She tried again.

“N-not that I find being bound to her particularly restrictive, you understand, and I would be lying if I were to say it was at all unpleasant… In fact, certain aspects of our entanglement could be described as…” Flashes of the passion of the previous night raced through her mind, and she felt as though she was on the verge of spontaneous combustion. She finished with a soft, “…rather  _ uniquely _ pleasant…”

“And if you encountered a threat to her? Let us suppose, for example, that your ‘entanglement,’ as you so  _ delicately _ put it, puts my sister at risk. How would you handle such a situation?” Sonja replied.

Katsumi began to open her mouth, but her breath stalled on her tongue. As recently as the previous day, the answer would have been apparent: she would have removed herself from the situation, one way or another. It was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?

And yet…

And yet the way Ástríðr had looked at her, it had been as though she was the only girl in the world—not in the poetic sense she had read in sappy romance novels and the bodice rippers she pretended not to like, referring to how her lover’s attention was focused on Katsumi to the exclusion of all else, but rather, in an almost literal context, as though without Katsumi in it, Ástríðr genuinely believed that all the world had to offer was solitude. She remembered, then, how Ástríðr had clung to her in the night; even as her fingers left trails of fire down the porcelain of Katsumi’s flesh, Ástríðr clutched her as though thinking she was a falsehood that would be carried away on a night wind, a shade of a fevered dream that would slip her grasp upon awakening.

No one had ever looked at her like that.

No one had ever held her like that.

Hel, she could not remember anyone ever holding her,  _ period. _ Not Haruhi, and certainly not anyone before or after her.

And when she considered the actual course of action, not in abstract, but in tactile, practical terms… 

“…Intellectually, I understand that the best course of action to pursue would be to remove myself from the equation. If I pose a threat, I should do all in my power to nullify that threat, as it would be…the right and moral thing to do. And yet…the very  _ idea _ of it makes me ill. Even now, I speak around the bile in my gorge at the thought,” Katsumi replied with complete candour, supposing that Sonja was merely concerned but well-meaning. “Even if it is true that leaving would be the selfless and righteous thing to do, I do not possess the strength to so much as contemplate it, let alone perform it. If I am honest and candid with myself, I will only be able to bring myself to leave her side if she explicitly orders me away, at which point I shall be left with no choice but to confront a fate I fear worse than my own slow and withering end.”

Sonja nodded, her posture and what little Katsumi could see of her expression a mask of careful neutrality. Then, abruptly, and almost without warning, Sonja drew her armaments and whirled around to face Katsumi in one swift motion, raising her spatha to the level of the much shorter drahn’s throat. “…Sonja?”

“We shared a womb, my sister and I. Did you know that?” Sonja began. “Ever since we were born, we have been bound, our fates intertwined to the point of defying all extrication. My sister is the strength of the mountain, and through her veins runs the fury of the storm that rages on its summit. I, in contrast, am unyielding as the earth. Since we were children, it has ever been my solemn duty to defend her from all those who would do her harm, whether by intent or incompetence or simple happenstance. It is that duty that led to the paladin’s powers being the gift granted by the Crystal. I exist to defend those I hold dear, do you understand?

“Even now merely giving you  _ this  _ much galls me, agitates the hate that roils in my gut. A vulgar  _ thing  _ such as you deserves no explanation, merely culling. I tell this to you now despite that, in acknowledgement of the love my sister bears you, however  _ misguided _ it might be. Your very  _ existence  _ is a poison, a blight, a pestilent malefaction, and given time, you will bring sorrow and destruction to all that you touch, all that you draw in with your honeyed words and foul form, however fair it may seem. You will  _ ruin  _ her. And for that, I cannot countenance your continued existence.

“I had hoped that even now, in your final moments, you would have the decency to offer words of scorn that my sister might purge your vile infection from her heart. But I suppose I was a fool to expect even that much from such a spiteful, knavish little churl. No matter. I shall find the words to deceive her, and make her believe you cursed her in the hour of your demise. A mere peccadillo in the grand scheme of things, a meagre price to pay to see her once more at peace and out of danger.” 

Shock rooted Katsumi to the spot, the words flowing forth from Sonja with such vitriol, her voice containing such malice and loathing that it took her aback. Was  _ this  _ the true Sonja? Was the soft-spoken, unassuming paladin merely an act? A farce, then? 

She felt herself in those moments go through the familiar motions. She was no stranger to betrayal, intimately familiar with the ardour of duplicity as she was, and her mind worked to convince her that she had earned this, that this was the moment to which her entire life had built. Friendless, devoid of kin, forsaking all that she was meant to protect—a cowardly, selfish,  _ weak  _ creature as deserving of being purged as Sonja seemed to believe she was.

As Sonja’s blade began to rise, prepared to descend and send her spiralling into the oblivion that was all that awaited one such as her, unwelcome, unwanted,  _ unloved _ as she was…

_ Wait. _

It was as though time began to dilate, and the world bled to monochrome, but she could pay it no mind; threads of stark, contrasting, saturated hues of warmth and hearth and carousing laced through her view.

Suddenly it was the previous night, and as she stepped free of the tables once more, finally getting the rhythm of serving the patrons, her eyes moved in spite of her, fixating on Ástríðr as though she was the source of all in the world Katsumi considered  _ life.  _ The determination in the elf’s gaze was perplexing, but before Katsumi could so much as form a phrase to inquire regarding Ástríðr’s business on this floor, her lips crashed into Katsumi’s own, searing passion and emotion into her, racing along every synapse to even the furthest appendage and extremity. It was charged, it was scorching, it was  _ brilliant… _

_ Ástríðr… _

_ I shall return to you, my love, no matter what—even should the path to your side lie across your sister’s corpse… _

Katsumi called.

Deatheater answered.

* * *

Yuriya the Sword Saint was not a woman given to sentiment. After the memory of the faces of the children she had watched die in her own youth began to fade and grow muddled, any sort of vulnerability had seemed an idiotic weakness to court. She had walked the world, slain men beyond counting, found mastery, found family, found  _ love;  _ and yet, by that point she had walked too far down this path of blood to ever truly understand things like sentiment.

When she told her little brother’s wife and their former comrade, Tsuyu, that she was going to find someone new to kill, it was not a lie; as enjoyable as it was to watch Kagura struggle, grow, learn, and flourish under her tutelage, she was still a woman with  _ needs,  _ after all, and she knew that  _ Tsuyu _ of all people understood that. The fact that her idiot niece’s little execution routine happened to take place in her unspoken territory was, while amusing, pure happenstance. The fact that the stray, the imitation that was but a pale, mocking shade of the one who had inspired her to cling to life and excel centuries ago, was the one who was to be slain did not move her one way or another. 

But she thought it would behoove her to at least bear witness to what was about to transpire, if only because Tsuyu had this odd fixation on her children, trueborn and adopted, and if she found that Yuriya had seen this happen and not told her, she would put a barrier between the Sword Saint and her young lover, and as strong as Yuriya was, not even  _ she _ stood a chance against an incensed Tsuyu.  _ None  _ of them did.

This in mind, she leapt up onto a nearby roof, getting as close as she could to watch the transpirings while still avoiding detection—people tended to be less likely to act if they had reason to believe they were being watched.  _ Typical. _

Her spineless idiot niece finally finished her blather, raising her sword to kill the stray, sealing her own death warrant in the process—not that Yuriya had reason to believe Sonja cared about such things at that particular moment.

There was a beat of hesitation as Sonja’s sword reached the peak of its arc, as her niece made certain of her angle, before the blade swiftly began to descend.

There was a pulse, and Yuriya felt the spiralling threads of Causality  _ shudder. _

Her every thought ground to a halt. She  _ knew  _ this feeling, impossible though it seemed.

The fabric of the world flickered, and the cleaving spatha stopped short with a harsh, grating clash that rang out across this all-but-abandoned part of the Rouge. Then the stray opened her eyes, staring directly at her assailant, and as Yuriya leaned in to get a better view of the drahn’s gaze, driven by some unconscious impulse, she felt her heart skip a beat.  _ This feeling…I haven’t felt this in centuries… _

Then the floodgates opened. Sonja possessed an amount of killing intent that even Yuriya had to begrudgingly admit was impressive, given her niece’s age and upbringing, and her little brother struggled to teach his daughter once she learned to harness it. Anyone else would say that this diminutive little slip of a girl ought to have collapsed into a heap from the murderous energy leaping off of Sonja and suffocating her immediate vicinity, but Yuriya wasn’t anyone else.

The spatha was deflected to the side and towards the ground. The brief pause of the clash was just that; the harsh sound of it had only just reached Yuriya when the parry was completed. Her heart beat again, and now it raced. Sonja moved to attack again, her brow furrowing, but her spatha did not so much stop as it was  _ moved,  _ its course high in the air, every iota of force her niece had brought to bear against the stray being diverted away and throwing her off-balance as the paladin’s own blow wrenched her arm back. 

The stray moved and pressed the attack, striking the flat of the black sword against Sonja’s knee with the force of a blacksmith’s metal-shaping, and sending her tumbling to the ground in a heap.

“Damn it!” Sonja spat, as she struggled to her feet, glaring balefully up at the stray. Said stray was decidedly unimpressed, her expression settled into untouchable, impassive serenity, a gaze Yuriya remembered had been levelled at her once, when she was an urchin, scrawny and scrappy and slight, on the streets of her home city. It radiated power beyond mortal comprehension, a certain superiority that did not need to be proven but simply  _ was,  _ existing as an even more irrefutable truth than the presence of the summer sun in midday. But while Yuriya had been shocked from catatonic ennui under the unfathomable weight of that gaze when first she confronted it, Sonja was only enraged.

The aspis led this time, in proper form, and with a shearing sound, Sonja’s peculiar power set to work, iron tearing itself from her blood into spikes, biting deep into the joint to hold the shattered knee in place. The spatha lashed forth rapidly, over and over again, and each time, the sword was deflected, going wide of its mark and dragging Sonja’s body along with it by the force of the blow for a moment before she could correct the displacement. 

The strange stray gave ground with each step, a little more each time, but unlike Sonja, Yuriya saw that she was not particularly pressed; she could have stayed where she was and had precisely the same amount of difficulty in avoiding harm. Sonja pursued doggedly in turn, the power flowing through her turning her conviction into zeal. The spatha’s strikes were too strong and held too much power for the stray to guard against, slight as she was, and the solution the stray had was hauntingly familiar. There was only one being she knew of who parried in quite that fashion, and the look in the stray’s eye confirmed it.

The strength flowing through Sonja redoubled and intensified, as did the speed of her flurry and her cuts, to the point where her sword produced enough shearing force to cause a vacuum; when the displaced air rushed to fill the gap, it tore up the worn cobblestone with it. They were a blur that experienced professional soldiers would not be able to parse—and though Yuriya was so far above that level of proficiency that those that far beneath her were not even worth the effort they took to kill, miniscule though it was, the sight was still an impressive display considering one of them had only been wielding their weapon for a handful of days by this point. With this amount of force coming at her, the stray’s parrying sent streams of debris flying into nearby buildings, where they cratered walls and shattered windows as they ran amok. The technique Sonja was using, in building up momentum to strike harder and faster, was one Yuriya’s little brother was fond of, as it put him at an advantage against most foes, intensifying his assault as their stamina quickly burned away. 

The downside to Sonja’s built-up speed, however, was its intricacy. An ordinary opponent would never be able to pick out the one point of her attack strategy that would make the entire thing collapse, and if Yuriya was honest with herself, the stray she had laid eyes upon the previous night would have been dead several times over by now, and was in a more general sense incapable of that feat. Yet, at the  _ exact  _ right moment, neither a hair too early nor a moment too late, the stray struck forth, weaving effortlessly through the assault to bash a specific point on Sonja’s sword arm and bloody Sonja’s face with a pair of well-placed pommel strikes that each resounded with the harsh crunch of breaking bone; Sonja’s arm slackened as the nerve cluster went dead in unison with her skull’s recoil, causing her to stagger, and giving the stray an in.

The black kriegsmesser leapt into action, four diagonal cuts landing in quick succession, before with a swing in the air that lead into a leaping pirouette that streamed with writhing, crackling scarlet-and-sable energy, the surprisingly nimble weapon brought itself tearing in a brutally elegant cleave across Sonja’s body. Her niece had the wherewithal to bring up her shield to take the brunt of the cut, but the sword sheared through her aspis and cut her nearly in twain.

Sonja staggered back and collapsed to her hands and knees, blood running freely from her gaping wounds. She gasped in pain and her chest heaved with the effort of breathing through the agony of having her torso rent open, but a pulse ran through the spilled blood on the pavement, and cruelly jagged slender spikes of iron twisted in the stray’s direction with a celerity that rendered them all but undodgeable.

The kriegsmesser wreathed itself in further writhing darkness, and a diagonal strike sent it leaping through the air, tearing across the road and leaving shrieking destruction in its wake. It consumed the iron spikes and continued undeterred, ripping up cobblestone as it went until it hit a building in the background. The darkness surged through the ramshackle establishment and set it to a shuddering collapse, kicking up quite a bit of dust in the process.

Yuriya didn’t miss Sonja rolling desperately out of the way of the rampaging wave of seething shadow, using the devastation as a cover to start casting Cure. A weak stream of luminous verdant energy chased itself around her feet, sometimes licking up to just below her knee, as the incantation fell from her niece’s lips; when the last word of the incantation was complete, motes of ghostly blue converged on her chest, knitting her wounds together almost instantaneously, and though not entirely, it returned enough vitality to her for her to stand, albeit shakily. She discarded her shield and switched her sword to her off-hand, the nerve juncture in her arm still all but inert and thus not nearly in fighting condition, and made ready to resume the engagement, determined to slay her sister’s lover.

Yuriya had seen everything she was willing to witness.

The stray came tearing through the debris-driven dust cloud in a leaping plunge, but Onimaru’s keen edge diverted her course. Sonja’s intervening lunge she caught with her off-hand, the spatha halting in its tracks; the sudden halt wrenched the sword from her idiot niece’s grasp, sending her body shooting forward, slamming her chest directly into Yuriya’s leg, raised in a perfect clothesline. “Now then. I’d say that’s  _ quite  _ enough rough-housing for today. Wouldn’t you agree, children?”

Just a bit further back from where she would have landed stood the stray, having managed to hit the ground and regain her footing with some modicum of grace and poise. Yuriya found herself afflicted with a weak impulse to smile at the nostalgia her posture brought to the forefront of the Sword Saint’s mind.

Then the stray’s mouth moved, and the bemused smirk it settled on sent an image flashing before Yuriya’s sight, long, wavy silver-white hair that flowed freely in the wind, a preternaturally beautiful countenance framing an icy, arctic stare, unerring and unflinching and utterly beyond mortality. “Look how the bloody flower descends to the field. My how you’ve grown, little one.”

Those words. Yuriya had forgotten what it felt like, the peculiar aversion to danger most mortals were accustomed to; yet, those words and that tone shocked into the Sword Saint the recollection of absolute, paralysing terror.

_ My lady liege… _

Then the violet eyes, possessing exactly the same horrifying quality as the frost-hued stare of her youth, shifted from her to her idiot niece. 

The girl thrust her weapon out to the side, where it dissipated into the Void from whence it had been drawn, and then approached Sonja. Kneeling down by the paladin’s side, the girl bearing the mantle of the last dark knight paralysed Sonja with the sheer force of her scrutiny. “You have had your say, Sonja, and when you did, I stood and I listened. Now I shall have my say, and you shall do as I did. Well, not quite.

“You seek to protect your sister, and that is the only reason you yet draw breath. What you fail to realise is Ástríðr’s heart, for it is embittered and jaded, and her every motion is near to being crushed under the weight of ennui. You believe I pose a threat to her person, but by slaying me, you pose a threat to her happiness, and that  _ I  _ cannot allow. And so I propose a bargain, in the name of the love we each bear towards her: you shall protect her person, and I her spirit. Should one of us perish, the other shall assume the vacant post. Would you be amenable to such an arrangement, Sonja? Nod or shake your head. You have come to too much harm for me to allow you speech in good conscience.”

Sonja glared balefully at the dark knight, who remained still and unmoved. Their eyes met for a pregnant moment, during which the girl’s killing intent swiftly engulfed Sonja’s and took on a physical weight with its intensity. Fear sparked in the eyes of Yuriya’s niece, and she nodded vigorously as she began to feel the air abate from around them, pressed thin with the passive, pervasive, and unrelenting force of the girl’s murderous aura.

The girl smiled. “Then we have an accord. As a token of good faith, this shall remain a secret between us. Ástríðr need never hear of what transpired today.”

“Oh? And what is this that I ‘need never hear of,’  _ my love? _ ”


	10. Jerusalem

“Oh? And what is this that I ‘need never hear of,’  _ my love? _ ”

To say that Ástríðr was peeved was a lie. To say that she was angry, equally so. To say that she was genuinely shocked that her surroundings didn’t simply spontaneously combust with the force of her fury was far closer to the truth, though still quite an impressive understatement. The only reason her sister’s head was still attached to her shoulders, if she was being honest with herself, was Katsumi’s proximity to the target and the fact that Ástríðr could not guarantee to herself that her lover would not come to incidental harm while she was in the grips of her rage.

Katsumi leapt to her feet and backed away from Sonja as though proximity to Ástríðr’s sister’s body was forbidden, which, in light of recent events, the elf supposed was likely the case. She really didn’t care to speculate beyond that. The world was awash in scarlet. There was no room in her mind for such considerations, only murder. “How much of that did you hear?!”

“I’ve been here since the beginning,” Ástríðr replied passively. Her mind was occupied with considering the course of the rest of her day in light of the new information.

First things first.

“Aunt Yuriya,” she called out, pointedly ignoring how ashen Katsumi’s face had become. “I seem to recall you are as accomplished a white mage as you are a swordswoman. Is that accurate information?”

“It is.”

“Good. I want you to heal my sister fully, and get her to her feet. Then I want you to stay around for a little while. I make no promises about Sonja surviving this, and I  _ don’t _ want to listen to Mom lecturing at me for hours. She’s not worth it. I have better things to do with my time,” Ástríðr instructed in a tone that brooked no argument. She  _ really  _ wasn’t in the mood.

Katsumi’s eyes rivalled saucers. “Ástríðr, I… She was just…”

“I did not give you permission to speak,” she snapped. “But since you saw fit to remind me that you’re here, you’re forbidden from leaving the area. I don’t want you out of my sight. Don’t worry, though. I’ll deal with  _ you  _ next.”

Katsumi nodded, her posture crumbling into demure submission and resignation. It would have bothered Ástríðr were she not already overwhelmingly awash with such unyielding wrath, to the point where it was starting to give her a splitting headache.  _ Deal with that later. Sonja is right here, and she’s my priority right now. _

She turned her attention to her sister as she got to her feet, the last luminous green motes of Yuriya’s Cura spell disappearing into the air in the process. “Sister…”

The next thing Ástríðr felt was her sister’s blood splashing onto her cheek, her fist buried so deeply into Sonja’s chest that she could feel the freshly-burst lung against her knuckles. She had been worried before, when she left herself behind and was thrown into the grip of her anger, but now it was an embrace she had thrown herself into, a welcome and overdue release of emotion. It felt  _ right  _ in a way it almost never had before, as she became fully attuned to the slumbering desire within her to rip and tear and gouge.

“I believe I was  _ very  _ clear on what would happen to you should Katsumi come to harm even incidentally, Sonja,” she said, and the anger edged her words with fulminating frost. She twisted her fist, further grinding the shattered ribs into the idiot’s body, a breathless whine of agony escaping from her. Her knee shot up and buried itself into Sonja’s groin, and it came away wet with blood as the dull jolt shot through the elf’s body. “To be honest, the only reason I’m not peeling you apart one limb and organ at a time and reducing you to a state beyond even our aunt’s ability to repair right now is because,  _ in spite of your efforts,  _ she remains unharmed. But your failure does not erase the attempt, the simple, irrefutable,  _ unacceptable  _ fact that you tried to  _ take from me what was mine.  _ And you should know by now, Sonja, that that’s not something I take kindly to.  _ Shouldn’t you? _ ”

Ástríðr changed her hand position, grabbing Sonja and throwing her into the street, where what remained of Sonja’s ribs seemed to menace her other lung. “Aunt Yuriya?”

A Curaga settled upon Sonja with motes of almost blindingly brilliant green, but Ástríðr was already moving, lifting a foot and stomping on Sonja’s sternum, causing a jolt to go through the elf’s body that sent yet another red geyser from her mouth. “It seems you’ve forgotten, Sonja, just  _ which  _ of us is the top dog here. You might be a higher level, but I’m sure you’re aware that the only reason you’re still alive is because of my charity, as conditional as it is. I have no idea how you’ve forgotten the lessons of our childhood, but it seems I will have to teach them to you anew. But that’s fine, you see, because despite this little  _ lapse _ in judgement, this  _ momentary madness  _ that must have inspired you—I mean, I’ve always known you were a malicious, spiteful little shitstain, but  _ this  _ was rather  _ remarkably  _ stupid of you—we’re still family. The bonds of shared blood aren’t so easily shattered. And in acknowledgement of that, I am all too willing to spend the time and effort to  _ carve those lessons into your miserable carcass, one by one. _ ”

She then took her foot out of Sonja’s chest and waved her aunt over again, who was already part of the way through casting another Curaga. Sonja sucked in air with a harsh gasp, her lungs reinflating painfully as she coughed, turning over onto all fours to hack up bits of pink lung tissue. Ástríðr did not squander the opening, planting a firm foot into her abdomen with a powerful kick that sent Sonja flying up and into her grasp. She raised her twin in the air and said, “And now, with this, I trust the lesson has been  _ learned! _ ”

She brought Sonja’s body down and brought her knee up, slamming her sister’s spine into the raised surface with a sickening  _ snap _ —Sonja’s pathetic scream of pain shredding the air—and then releasing, letting her tumble off of her knee and to the ground, jostling the injury.

Yuriya sighed and started casting again, but Ástríðr paid her aunt, who was now firmly back in her good books, no mind; her attention turned now to her lover, who looked away, guilt plain in her eyes and unease obvious in her face and bearing. The day before, the elf would have assumed that the girl was unnerved by Ástríðr’s show of force, but she knew better now, knew that the girl she loved was an idiot who likely believed her existence was at fault for driving a wedge between the siblings or some stupid shit like that. It fell, then, to Ástríðr to  _ thoroughly  _ disavow her of that fool notion, as she knew Katsumi was incapable of doing so herself.

It was almost too easy, shoving her and thus sending her reeling into a far wall with a small  _ oof  _ of expelled air. Ástríðr followed, of course; she couldn’t very well let Katsumi escape with such stupid ideas running through her head as she found some way to blame herself for Sonja’s crowning moment of idiocy. An arm slamming into the wall just above Katsumi’s head sent the correct message, that there was no out for her. In such a fashion, eyes wide and breath heavy, back against the wall and hemmed in by Ástríðr’s form, the girl was temptation made flesh. And knowing what she knew now, the elf did not hesitate to claim the forbidden fruit.

The small squeak of surprise anointed her as she claimed Katsumi’s lips, looking for all the world as though she meant to devour her lover and all that she was. She found she cared not for how it looked to anyone else, however; this girl, this  _ vision,  _ was hers; she could belong to no other, Ástríðr would not allow it, would rather set the world to flame and ash and ruin than ever seriously contemplate the possibility.

It was her lungs that managed to betray her first. Their coercive pleas for air forced her to break the kiss, and like every other time where Katsumi was concerned, her hunger for this girl was stoked and mounting anew. The idea that Sonja had been willing to take that from her… But no. No, despite wholeheartedly agreeing with the impulse that insisted that no amount of punishment could ever suffice for the magnitude of this betrayal her sister had attempted,  _ to the point of lying about Katsumi’s last words,  _ she knew that the prince would be quite put out were her favoured toy to be broken beyond repair, and not even the hatred she felt for Mercédès Charlotte Lucerne could cause her to forget that she was  _ not  _ someone to be crossed.

Not to mention, Mercédès was her best friend, and she wasn’t about to jeopardise that on account of  _ Sonja,  _ of all people.

Her lover leaned her head against the wall, her cheeks flushed, her eyes lidded and hazy, her pouty lips parted in an ever-so-erotic fashion, her breath fogging with each laboured exhale as she visibly fought the impulse to follow Ástríðr as the elf pulled away. Then the amethysts snapped back to startling awareness, the blushing glow in her cheeks intensifying as she snapped her jaw and mouth shut, averting her eyes to the ground.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Ástríðr remarked. “I don’t know what I’d do if Sonja had succeeded back there.”

“…”

“I’m sorry?”

“…”

“Speak up, love.”

“I said I wasn’t about to leave you!” Katsumi burst out, glaring ineffectually. Then she  _ pouted. _ “Idiot…”

Ástríðr smirked. “That’s good. Because I wasn’t about to let you.”

The girl’s eyes widened, and her cheeks began to inflame to shades of red that Ástríðr didn’t know that complexion could make. “Don’t just  _ say _ things like that! What are you, stupid?! What if someone overhears?!”

Ástríðr shrugged. “Let them hear. Let them gather around and listen. You’re  _ mine.  _ I will  _ never _ be made to feel ashamed for that, and I don’t want  _ you  _ to, either.”

“I… I… I don’t…” Katsumi closed her eyes, carefully composing herself so that she could speak clearly. “We’re expected. I’d like to get going before I say something incriminating. Well… _ more  _ incriminating, I guess… And…thank you. It’s…nice…to see that you care.”

Ástríðr chuckled, shaking her head. This girl was  _ truly  _ a beautiful little fool. It would be irritating if it wasn’t so consistently, insufferably adorable. She pressed a kiss to the crown scale pattern on her forehead.  _ But I love that about her… _ “We’d best get going, then.”

“What do you mean, ‘we?’”

“I mean I’m coming with you, seeing as my moron of a sister has demonstrated herself as being unable to be trusted with the task of guarding you. If you think I’m leaving anything about this to chance after what transpired mere  _ minutes  _ ago, you’re addled.” Ástríðr locked eyes with her lover, doing her best to impress how deathly serious she was right then. “When I said I don’t want you out of my sight, I  _ meant  _ it. And I don’t know if you’ve happened to notice, but as a general matter, what I want, I  _ get.  _ I’m coming with you to the Silvern Basilica, and I’m going to be with you when you talk to Mercédès. Non-negotiable. Is that understood?”

Katsumi nodded eagerly and silently.

Ástríðr relaxed. “I’m glad we’re on the same page, then. Don’t worry. The Basilica itself might be invitation-only, but Mercédès and I go way back. In fact, I’d go so far as to say we’re each other’s best friends.”

“…Then why did you think she was going to hurt me? Wasn’t that why you nearly killed that squire earlier? Estinien, I think his name was?”

“Oh, because we hate each other, Mercédès and I,” Ástríðr replied, lost as to how her beloved could get confused over such a simple concept. “We always have, for as long as we’ve known each other.”

“But I thought you said you were best friends…?”

“We are.”

“And yet, you hate each other…?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I…see…” Katsumi replied, in a tone that made it abundantly clear that she was even more lost now than when she started.

“No, you don’t,” Ástríðr corrected, gently but firmly. “And that’s alright. You don’t have to. I know you’re plenty clever, love, but no one knows everything. Let’s just say that people like Her Grace and I form…rather unique bonds with others like us.”

“…That’s not terribly specific,” Katsumi noted.

Ástríðr laughed. “Well then, I guess it’ll be easier to just show you.”

* * *

The Silvern Basilica was a gleaming structure, made from some mixture of stone and crystal that lent the walls of the palace a metallic lustre, hence the name. It was the first truly alien structure Katsumi had seen in this new life of hers, and the first true seat of power she’d ever actually visited in memory. Yet, its exterior, despite all of its crenellations and confounding buttresses, its empyrean spires and sweeping artifice, was of no consequence when juxtaposed against the majestic grandeur of the interior, the arches and arcades supporting ceilings of rooms larger than any she had ever occupied. Frescoes and paintings and tapestries adorned the walls between imposing stained-glass windows, each with an artistry that Katsumi would have hazarded to say was beyond mortal means.

Magic, once again.

The throne in the audience chamber looked for all the world to be carved from one single, massive pearl, uninterrupted and bereft of the irregularities one would always find in stone of a similar hue, and sat upon it in what appeared to be utmost comfort was the prince herself.

The audience chamber was packed with petitioners, each waiting their turn to present their case for arbitration to their sovereign, who was hiding her irritation and boredom well, but not perfectly. No one who was not explicitly looking for it would find it.

When her eyes caught sight of Katsumi, however,  _ everyone  _ in the audience chamber, even the long-winded petitioner currently basking in his fifteen minutes of fame, noticed how her gaze sharpened and glinted, her entire reclined posture perking up slightly.

“Lady Katsumi! I must admit, you certainly know how to keep a girl in suspense,” Prince Mercédès interrupted, silencing the petitioner as the sovereign addressed the drahn directly. “I had wondered when you would make your entrance—I had not thought you the sort to hold to the idea that tardiness can ever be fashionable.”

“…My apologies, Your Grace,” Katsumi replied, bowing at the waist. “I was delayed by matters beyond my control.”

“‘Twas but a jest, my friend,” the prince replied, waving her hand with an expression of mirth somewhere between a giggle and a chuckle. “Your commitment to decorum is unnecessary, endearing though it may be.”

“Your Grace…” protested the petitioner.

“We believe you have made your point, Baron Fortinbras. It shall be presented to the council, where we shall consider it,” Mercédès interjected, polite but firm. “Now, Maman, would you do the honours? I would prefer to have this meeting beyond the sight of prying eyes, and out of overeager earshot, so bent to catch state secrets.”

Dame Rienna stepped out of an alcove to the side of the pearl throne, and nodded to the robed and armoured people, soldiers, Katsumi supposed, that she only just now managed to notice. Each of them bore at their wrists a bracelet, each of which suspended the same five-limbed cross that the knight-captain had on her belt buckle. Their garb was uniformly white, some with black and some with gold, which Katsumi supposed was an indication of rank, though there were no signs as to which colour outranked the other. Upon closer inspection, however, the robes themselves were not robes at all, but instead almost fully identical to kyūdōgi, the only divergence being in the extra ornamentation, made of a material that she wanted to call metal, but couldn’t, given its matte finish.

They nodded in unison in return, stepping forth to begin filing the petitioners out of the audience chamber, which took several minutes, a far shorter time than Katsumi had expected that to take given it being not only on short notice, but also in such a large room. The last of the petitioners exited and the doors that Katsumi hadn’t noticed swung closed, leaving the strange sentinels to return silently to their posts around the room.

“By your delay, I am to infer that my concubine has learned her place? I must admit, my love, I had not expected you to deliver her to me in one piece. Or rather…I had thought you more than equal to such a task,” said the prince, and her smile was not a knife, but a garrote wire, dripping with subtle poison. “Ah, well. I don’t suppose you’ve come here to make amends… Katsumi, my dear, you look rather lost. Where, exactly, did my words cease to make sense, pray tell?”

“…No, it’s just… I had not supposed that what you wanted from me could be taken from my corpse, Your Grace,” Katsumi replied with another bow. The calm settled over her again, her mind working to take account of the room’s features and to assess just how much danger she was in here. “I apologise; I’m afraid I lack the head to appreciate such subtleties.” 

The prince was silent for a split moment, and in her state of hyper-awareness, Katsumi’s attention artificially dilated that instant, catching how Mercédès’s eyes were inarticulably, almost imperceptibly  _ wrong _ for the span between one blink and the next. Her garrote smile morphed fully into a smirk. 

The world flickered for half a beat.

“The fuck!” cried Ástríðr, and Sonja let out an accompanying grunt from beside and behind Katsumi. She knew without looking that yet more of these sentinels had appeared and grabbed both of them from behind—the air reeked of something between ozone and iron, evoking the image of an antlion in its burrow. 

“I bid you calm yourself, good-sister,” said Mercédès, her tone too overdone to be conciliatory, and thus mocking. “I’m only sending you off to the dungeons until my conversation with  _ your _ beloved is through. I’m sure you can beat your record in that time, no?”

“I see no reason why they must be restrained. I’m certain one of your  _ magnanimous  _ stature has more appropriate amenities for them to wait in,” Katsumi interjected.

“There is no arrangement more fitting for dearest Sonja, and it simply wouldn’t be fair to give one more prestigious treatment than the other. Or did you  _ wish _ to place a wedge between them? It seems awfully aggrandising.”

Katsumi’s tongue was suddenly too large for her throat, and her voice betrayed her. She glared at the floor impotently, but nodded all the same. “Do as you will, then.”

“It’s adorable that you ever thought I wouldn’t, truly.” With those prim words and an unseen cue, the sentinels began to escort the pair from the room.

It was only when the door slammed shut like the lid on a sarcophagus that Katsumi exhaled heavily. “Now you have me alone, isolated, the weak link separated from her protectors. An enviable position in which to find prey as far as any predator is concerned, to be certain. And yet I find myself still wondering one thing. What do you wish of me?”

Peals of laughter so light and innocent that in context it sounded like nothing short of mockery echoed about the vaulted chamber. “Were you not the property of my dearest friend Ástríðr, I might have played along with your naïveté and at least ordered you to strip. But, alas, you’d likely take me seriously and then Father only knows how many compromising positions we’d end up in.”

“It never ceases to fascinate me how one can use so many words and yet say nothing,” Katsumi replied with an affectation of faux-affability.

“Nope,” she said, and a blacksmith’s shop would have stocked fewer sharp objects than her expression at that moment—stilettos this time instead of garrotes. “I’m not here to play that game. I say more than you know, Katsumi. I cannot be held responsible for your inability to hear what is being spoken plainly. For instance, I have, to my knowledge, clearly stated that you are important to me only in that you are connected to my concubine and, more pressingly, her sister, Ástríðr. I suspect that will change with time. You are, after all, quite the big player in this game we call life—even if you don’t know it yet.”

“I have been made painfully aware of that fact, I’m afraid,” Katsumi replied, forcing down her irritation as she reached down to her satchel, almost unconsciously, and placed her hand against the place where the seed rested. Its warmth and gentle pulsing was pronounced even through the leather of the bag and the thin leather of her glove, bringing a strange vital stillness into her slight form. “Thrice have I been visited by those who spoke much the same. Riddles and esoterica seem their stock and trade; yet, you lack their air. There is but one I was said to await, and thus, I somehow doubt you are the one they call ‘Loki.’ And so I must wonder as to your designs, as I do theirs, together with how,  _ specifically,  _ they concern me and mine.”

“…Your blade,” the prince said at length. “I would see it. Not today, of course, but there will be ample time for such things in the future. You will, after all… I cannot think of a way to end that sentence in a way that you could hope to decipher… What I mean to say is that you and I are further connected than you think and that bond… Well, you happen to remind me of someone that I once knew. It is… Odd that you would stand before me. That you would look at me with those eyes. I feel almost comfortable—if only in memory.”

“You are not unique in that. With respect, Your Grace, it becomes tiresome to be constantly confronted with those who seem to know more about me than I do,” replied Katsumi. “It is as though my arrival to this land was an event of some note, that those in such high office take note of it in such a manner. Regardless of the accuracy of such a claim, I must admit, I was not informed.”

“It weighs more now than it does in battle, doesn’t it? The moment you saw me… I felt it.” 

“I am ignorant as to the nature of your insinuation, Your Grace, and I must protest if it is nefarious. I divulge such things to you because…” Katsumi stopped.  _ Why  _ did she divulge such things to this woman?

The seed pulsed once, much more strongly, and the words came with an easy smile. “I suppose it’s because I remember that at times, a girl trips and falls in the course of official business, only to be caught by a dreamer with more ambition than sense; and while at the time it might seem innocuous, looking back upon it, the veil of predetermination settles quickly.”

Katsumi was somewhat amazed at how such simple words rendered one who had up until this point been a consummate politician so thoroughly speechless that her jaw hung open. “You appear unduly astonished. Have I said anything improper?”

“Ástríðr… What have you brought me…” The prince muttered under her breath. When she finally seemed to find herself again, she said, “Strip.”

There was a certain familiarity that suffused Katsumi such that she gave heed to the prince’s command; she did so, shedding her garments one by one that she then stood before the throne, barefoot and naked save for the sarashi that held her breasts, modest though they might have been, in place. Her tail swished back and forth to acclimate to the new balance her nudity afforded, and before she stood properly before the prince, her mind nagged her to kneel and draw from the now discarded satchel the warm seed that even now glimmered and emitted a low, umbral chorale in her hand.

She looked up only to be stopped dead, seeing that the prince was now in a similar state of undress—a quick once-over determined that she was indeed an elf, and as such, equipped as she had learned Ástríðr to be over the past two days.

The other, far less pleasant, matter she noticed was the fact that there was only slightly less scar tissue than unmarred flesh on the prince’s body.

Katsumi’s attention was drawn to the single finger the prince brought to bear upon an unmarred patch on her inner arm, drawing it down sharply as though smudging a line on her skin. The flesh opened, and on Katsumi’s arm, a pain so intense it was existential shot through the limb.

Katsumi grasped the seed in her injured arm, and took her other hand, instead of to the pain on her arm as the wound opened, to her mouth. Her teeth felt sharper, firmer than usual, but she could not bring herself to remark upon it as she closed her jaw on her finger without hesitation, breaking the skin and bringing hot blood to her lips. There was danger there, some part of her knew, but perhaps not  _ quite  _ so much danger with the prince as there would have been with others; the wounded finger she brought to the prince as it dripped blood that steamed as it hit the floor, hissing almost like an acid. Using her hand high she motioned for the prince to take her blood in turn.

Mercédès’s brow furrowed in confusion, but whatever she saw in Katsumi’s eyes at that moment informed her of what was to happen, and she took three drops of the drahn’s blood into her mouth, swallowing it. Three drops, no more, and Katsumi drew her hand away into her own mouth, licking the puncture as it sealed.

“Normally, this is where I would say that the pain will pass but the blessing will not. Today, however, I think I needed to hear those words more than you did.” There was an almost melancholy edge to her smile this time, and it brought a smile to Katsumi’s own.

“A blessing for a curse. A blood oath rewritten. A covenant renewed,” the drahn replied. “It was never going to be pleasant, I’d venture.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mercédès said, although her eyes told Katsumi that she was more used to granting than to being granted. Katsumi felt the Beast within roil in rebellion, a foreign  _ thing  _ entering her soul, but in moments, the creature surged, and found more defined form; instead of a reptilian, serpentine thing scraping along the insides of her skin, she felt something of a body akin to her own surging through her limbs. The Darkside whispered in agitation, but she could puzzle out its tidings later; and besides, some part of her was certain that Mercédès was in a similar state, her composure aside. “Should Ástríðr permit it, I would advise you to return home in such a state of undress. That which I have bestowed has rendered you vulnerable for a time, and as the sun is now your ally, I think it wise to make its acquaintance more so than you have been, given your complexion.”

“Understood,” Katsumi said, nodding. Then a thought occurred. “Also, I should warn you that you should clear out a few days. What I gave you is going to start smarting soon.”

* * *

Sonja believed she had had better days. She was having trouble remembering any due to how terrible this day in particular was, but she was  _ certain _ she had once been happy and content with her lot in life. Once being freed from her prince’s dungeon, however, those happier times fell away. That thrice-damned stupid, bitchy, irresponsible, hateful, horrific drahn! Sonja hated her. Sonja hated her sister for loving her. She hated her prince for indulging her. She hated herself for losing to her. She  _ hated  _ her. The  _ moment  _ Sonja figured out how to dispose of her, there would be no place in the world to which that damned monster would be able to escape her. 

Several hours had passed since she and her sister were incarcerated in the dungeon, and they now stood outside of the audience chamber to receive the prince’s judgement. After several minutes spent waiting outside, denied entry by the Star Knights, the prince’s personal guard, Sonja was ready to concede that this day could not get any worse; then the double doors swung open, and she stood, dumbstruck, as her prince stood on what appeared to be shaky knees, holding herself up by way of slinging her arm over that fucking drahn’s shoulder. That fucking drahn, by the way, who was holding herself up by way of leaning on her prince. Before Sonja had a chance to explode at them, however, she noticed something that made her heart sink. There was a scar on the drahn’s arm. A matching scar had been engraved into her prince’s arm. Before a single thought had a chance to run through her mind, Sonja found herself charging the duo, screaming, “What the  _ fuck  _ have you done to her?!”

The prince turned to Sonja, and the smile she flashed was equal parts keen and wicked. “Well, I’m naked. She’s naked. We’ve been alone for about three hours. You tell me?”

Under just about any other circumstances, had it been  _ anyone _ but the drahn, the insinuation would have made Sonja weak in the knees. But given the persons involved… To say that it further stoked the flames of her fury would have been a falsehood by way of insufficient degrees of severity. In short, it would be a gross understatement.

With no consideration for anything, Sonja sprinted up towards the drahn to punch her in the face. The punch never connected, though. Sonja found herself frozen in place, her own scar burning hotter than it ever had before. Her prince had paralized her for the moment. Feelings of betrayal began to seep into her soul as she felt tears of impotent rage rolling down her cheeks. The fact that her prince was taking the blight on her life’s side over her own made her uncomfortably aroused did nothing to make the situation better.

The monster placed her face in her hand and sighed in exasperation. “I counseled against it, but Her Grace was most insistent upon the jest. I apologise in her stead since she will not, and bid you rest assured we have done nothing of what she is implying.

Ástríðr’s hand came down on her shoulder and Sonja heard her sister say, “I mean, we still  _ can _ do all of that, as long as I’m included.”

“I suppose we could, at that,” Her Grace speculated thoughtfully.

“No. We can’t,” the drahn snapped most rudely, her face flushed, no doubt one of the ways in which she lured in those like her prince and her sister, and warped into a mask of mortified belligerence.

Ástríðr laughed uproariously. “It’s cute that you think you have a choice.”

“I’ll take first go at the mouth?” Mercédès proposed with a wry grin, a lascivious glint in her eyes.

“Sure, but the ass is off-limits for now.”

“Really? Ugh. Fair enough, I guess.”

“I really hope this is what passes for verbal sparring between you two…” the drahn whined. 

Both of the most important people in Sonja’s life shrugged. “Maybe we are.”

“Maybe we aren’t.”

Then they finished in unison. “Either way, it doesn’t concern you.”

“Don’t we all have  _ things  _ to do? I’d like to get back to all those  _ things  _ we need to get done today. I like getting  _ things  _ done, especially when it doesn’t mean getting  _ things  _ in my  _ things  _ for several hours when we’ve already burned so much daylight.”

How dare this  _ scum  _ not only do all that she’d done, but then get Sonja’s hopes up, make her confused about them, and leave her stewing in her confusion as they came crashing down!

“Gotcha. Rain check?” Ástríðr inquired.

“Rain check,” Mercédès replied with a grin.

“Good to see you two are getting along…” the drahn muttered. “Still haven’t seen you two  _ hating  _ each other yet, though…”

“That’s on you,” Mercédès sniped.

“She’s right. You don’t get to turn down a three-way and then complain about not getting a three-way,” Ástríðr added.

“So…the enmity you spoke about is  _ sexual  _ in nature?”

“Pretty much,” Ástríðr replied.

“Always has been,” Mercédès confirmed.

“Well, at least it’s not because one of you jilted the other. Take the victories I can get…”

“She’s cute when she’s trying not to be jealous,” Mercédès noted.

“She really is,” Ástríðr nodded.

“Somehow I feel like a sack of rice has more agency than I do right now…”

* * *

Yuriya believed it was safe to say she had had her fill of  _ stimulation _ for the day; for the first time since she had known her sister-in-law, since she had first met the formidable woman her little brother had fallen head-over-heels for, she considered reporting the day’s findings to her to be preferable to the alternative course of action—namely, dealing with what was apparently the return of her lady liege of eld, the woman who had had far and away the most significant impact on the life she lived, unassisted.

To this end, upon her niece thankfully defusing the situation and causing them to part ways, the fabled Sword Saint had beat a hasty retreat, taking the most expeditious route from her hunting grounds back to the Drunken Whore. She had never quite been able to discern why her brother and his wife had chosen to open a bordello in the Rouge to raise their children; upon the dissolution of their adventuring company, the Laughing Tree, immediately following the Great War, all five of them—Tsuyu, Yuriya, Rienna, Tandem, and Sebastian—had had sufficient means to buy out the Free Cities if they so desired. Of them, Rienna alone had made good use of such means, while Yuriya and Sebastian preferred to wander, but even Sebastian had settled down once he found a man he wanted to raise a family with, making good use of their resources. So why a whorehouse?

It was then that Yuriya realised just how off-balanced seeing the image of her lady liege before her had made her, that she had such extraneous thoughts floating unabated through her mind. She was keenly aware of how unlike her such an occurrence was, and such knowledge only served to compound her already profound unease.

Sweeping into the establishment, and moving past beloved Kagura and her sister opening packs for the children’s card game ‘Heroes’ (Yuriya having given each a box from the game’s newest set, ‘World of Ruin,’ fresh from Rosenfaire and Sophia’s contacts, the day before), Yuriya made a beeline to Tsuyu, who seemed to understand the urgency of her tidings. Tsuyu was always dangerously observant, and she had never appreciated that faculty of hers more than she did at that moment, when she jerked her head into the kitchen, beneath which was the magically cooled cellar for alcohol and perishables.

Nodding, Yuriya watched Tsuyu begin to make her way there, following hot on her tail. Maelnaulde was meteorologically capricious to say the least, temperate only until the sunset brought the icy winds knifing through the streets, and so the kitchen’s oven being able to double as a furnace to route gentle heat through the establishment while keeping the night’s toothy maw out was an ingenious investment, which more than offset the cost not only of such a device, but also the size of kitchen it necessitated. The cellar was accessed through an alcove in the kitchen, easily missed, within which was nestled away a stairwell into the subterranean storeroom.

Into this alcove and down into the cellar they went, and wreathed as it was with magical characters of various interlocking languages and systems for the sole purpose of regulating the temperature throughout specific sections of the chamber without the need for physical walls, the area was significantly colder than the tavern area over their heads; it was also, as a consequence of the enchantments, soundproofed, to the point of it being the most private area in the bordello.

“So then, Yuriya. You wished to discuss something with me? Something of an urgent and presumably sensitive nature?” Tsuyu prompted without preamble as she whirled about to face the Sword Saint.

“I’m assuming you’re aware that your daughter made her move to eliminate the girl—the drahn, the new one whose name I don’t know—once they were out of earshot,” Yuriya began.

“I was aware that it was eventually going to happen. I’m unsurprised that she chose that particular opportunity to strike, though I must confess my disappointment in her and her judgement all the same,” Tsuyu replied. “However, I sincerely doubt that  _ you  _ of all people would consider that information in any way urgent or sensitive.”

“Your daughter didn’t succeed in her task,” the Sword Saint continued. “And her failure was not due to any outside interference, or indeed, her own inadequacy. Vast though it is in truth, her idiocy was not the cause of her downfall. Not this time.”

Tsuyu didn’t deign to respond to that verbally, taking a long draw from the smouldering embers of kizami in her kiseru and making a supercilious gesture to prompt the elf to continue.

Yuriya was well-aware that she was stalling, and that it was as contrary to the rest of her baseline self as the conflict that writhed startlingly within her, overridden though that conflict was with that peculiar mix of anxiety and tension her former mentor always somehow managed to draw from her.  _ I didn’t expect to see her again, not in a form like that, and certainly not so soon… Blast it… _

The image of those eyes, icy and glacial and inhuman, set in an unnaturally fair, pale face framed with long, wavy silver-white hair, flashed into view once more.

_ “You disappoint me, little one. As you are, you’ll never know what it is to live… And a flower stagnant in the bud, never to blossom or bloom, is one of the few true tragedies.” _

Yuriya let out a frustrated exhale. Damn that woman, unnaturally immaculate and infuriatingly perfect as she was, and damn her spectre that even now had its fine, elegant fingers burrowed deep into the familiar corridors and trenches of her embattled mind. “She’s returned. I’m  _ certain  _ of it.”

“To whom are you referring, Yuriya dearest?” asked Tsuyu, her immaculate black brow furrowed ever so slightly.

_ This is it. Do or die.  _ “I’m referring to the only one I’ve ever feared.  _ The Promised Blade. _ ”

Tsuyu’s eyes widened in shock for a moment, and then she suddenly couldn’t contain her mirth. When the next words left her plum-hued lips, they were somewhere between bemused and incredulous, spoken between fits of laughter that visibly shook her glamourous frame. “Is that… Is that  _ all? _ ”

Now it was Yuriya’s turn to be nonplussed. “Is that… Wait… You  _ knew  _ this was going to happen? Did you  _ plan _ this?!”

“In order: yes, no,” replied Tsuyu, glib in the way only she could be. “In no way did I  _ intend  _ for your old teacher to show up on my doorstep, but if you think I didn’t  _ immediately  _ recognise the girl who came to us that day, then I am left with no choice but to believe you’ve taken leave of your senses, dear.”

“So, you  _ knew  _ the girl was the return of the Promised Blade, and you chose to leave me  _ ignorant  _ of that?”

“Two things,” said Tsuyu, holding up a finger on her free hand before releasing a steady plume of opaque white smoke. “First, you were likely to figure it out on your own eventually, and if you didn’t figure it out, it would be a non-issue. And second, had I told you that dear Katsumi was the Promised Blade in a new form, can you  _ honestly  _ tell me you would have waited long enough for such traits to emerge on their own?”

To that, Yuriya had no answer.

“Age has made you distrustful, sister. I must ask you to have faith in me once more, as you did so long ago, and I swear to you that all of us shall emerge from the other side of the approaching series of events intact. Well…” Tsuyu smirked around the pipe of her kiseru. “…at least, in a manner of speaking.”

“…Fine. I’ll be sharpening my sword. I trust you have the necessary tools handy?”

“Tandem’s the one to ask if you want them brought to you. With regards to method, you still follow the sashikomi nugui school, yes?”

“Onimaru is temperamental,” said the Sword Saint with a shrug.

“Very good. I’ll have them to you anon.”

Yuriya nodded, and turned to ascend the stairs. Then, halfway to the ground floor, she stopped. “See that you keep that oath, Tsuyu. Kagura is important to me. I will not stand to see her come to harm unduly.”

With that, she made her exit, missing the twist to Tsuyu’s lips.

Tsuyu chuckled. “The Yuriya of a century ago would never have said such things about anyone. But then, I suppose love makes fools of us all in the end, doesn’t it, dear sister?”


	11. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woman

“I realise now that I have been somewhat remiss, but in my defence, it has been a rather  _ eventful  _ four days since you came to live with us, and we have been pressed for time as a result.”

Katsumi felt her brow crease in confusion. Immediately upon returning to the Drunken Whore from the events that transpired in the Silvern Basilica, before she even had a chance to dress herself once more, Madam Tsuyu demanded her presence; these were the first words the woman had spoken since then, uttered as she produced a key from the sleeves of her yukata to open the locked room on the second floor to which Katsumi had been led. “Madam Tsuyu, I’m afraid I don’t follow…”

“Mm. Well, in light of the  _ nighttime antics  _ you young people have gotten up to, let us simply say that the past few days count as an impromptu evaluation,” the woman continued, either missing or ignoring Katsumi’s strangled cry at her rather cavalier wording. “You have promise, little dragon, and your skill in such arts seems to be growing with the experience. In the ordinary course, as I would not have you serve on your back, I would count your prowess as satisfactory. Yet you now find yourself courting my daughter, and I must confess I find my standards raised by this knowledge.”

_ Where has this come from?! _ Katsumi cried within the privacy of her own mind, not trusting her voice.

“This is neither an indictment, nor a criticism of your suitability as dear Ástríðr’s…‘girl friend,’ I believe you children call it? Indeed, I do not believe she could have chosen better. So I bid you not to worry your head over such a thing,” Madam Tsuyu clarified, the room before them unlocked, though the door itself remained closed. “In the ordinary course, I am given to understand, it is my duty as a parent to evaluate you and give either my blessing or disapproval to your little  _ arrangement.  _ Consider what is to follow this moment, then, to be an expression of my blessing, unconventional though it might be.”

A lump formed in Katsumi’s throat and dropped into her abdomen. “Madam Tsuyu, I appreciate your approval, but I fear I should be ill were I to find myself straying from your daughter’s bed.”

Tsuyu laughed, and her jade eyes glittered with mirth; a flash of white, like an elongated tooth, Katsumi caught as her plum lips opened, but it was gone when she blinked, and she decided it was likely a trick of the light. “Is  _ that _ what you think this is? My dear girl, while I am flattered, I suppose, that is not at all what my intentions are here. Suffice it to say that were it my intention to bed you, you would not leave my chambers with breath still in your body.”

Madam Tsuyu’s smile this time was as playful as it was shark-like, and Katsumi realised two things: one, she had not imagined the elongated teeth, and two, Madam Tsuyu was not a hume as the drahn had at first been given to assume.

Fortifying her composure, Katsumi met the glittering green. “Then may I ask what your intentions  _ are? _ ”

“You may. I might even answer,” the inhuman woman rejoined. “Truthfully, it is a gift. A dowry of sorts, you might call it. A boon for you and her both. When I am through with you, my girl, Ástríðr will not so much as  _ consider  _ another.”

The comment pleased Katsumi, before the guilt at her initial reaction seized her, and then directed her words. Her lover might wish to keep her close and by her side, but that did not mean Katsumi had any right to feel jealousy over the idea of Ástríðr bedding others. “I am not Ástríðr’s keeper, Madam Tsuyu. I shall not stray from her because the very notion of doing so sickens me; she is under no obligation to reciprocate. If she wishes to bed as many women as time will allow, that is her prerogative. I am hers; she is not mine. I understand my place, and as such, I have no intention of infringing upon her freedoms.”

“Methinks you protest entirely too much, dear girl,” Tsuyu replied teasingly, her eyes glittering with good-natured mirth. “I fear your heart may well be  _ branded _ to your sleeve. But insist as you like; I intend to instruct you all the same. Follow me.”

The older woman’s long fingers turned the knob of the door, and then crossed the threshold into the revealed chamber that lay beyond. As bidden, Katsumi followed suit, feeling the door close behind her. Madam Tsuyu was already sweeping into the centre of the room, so Katsumi attributed the door’s motion once more to magic as she made to follow her employer.

“I made certain to air out your bed the morning after you surrendered your maidenhead, together with Ástríðr’s this morning, just after the four of you left. I have been on my back many times, for a very long time, and for a few decades have I run this bordello especially, so suffice it to say I am well-acquainted with the residue left behind by activities of such a clandestine nature. Tell me, Katsumi: are you acquainted with the utility of your mouth as an orifice? With the skills attached to its use in the course of bringing pleasure to your partner?”

Katsumi felt the question as if she had just walked into a solid wall. “I…I’m sorry?”

The expression that Madam Tsuyu wore then was more than a little bemused. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then. But perhaps that’s for the best. A blank slate has no bad habits to unlearn, after all. It  _ does,  _ however, mean we’ll have to start working out where your limits are as they currently stand.

“It may surprise you to learn, little dragon, that there is more to coupling than that which may result in childbirth,” she continued, turning her back to Katsumi as she walked from the centre of the chamber to the far wall, against which rested a wardrobe built of dark wood. Katsumi looked around to attempt to discern the room’s function, and yet each thing she laid eyes upon further complicated the issue, as none of these had functions she could discern.

There was a large X-shaped piece of wood at one wall, with manacles built into it for security. In the corner was what appeared to be a podium that had been sheared in half, and a long triangular prism was secured to its top, the sharpest point facing skyward. The rack on the back wall with paddles and ropes, whips and crops, canes and what appeared at first glance to be cattle prods but were in actuality branding irons, suspended from it was perhaps the item in the room with the clearest purpose bar the wardrobe. Even the futon set in the corner opposite the prismic semi-podium was perplexing, as this room was clearly never meant to be a chamber for sleep. The walls were painted a deep, almost stony blue, unassuming and understated, and for the life of her, she could not understand why this room was so important.

“Look down.”

Katsumi tore her gaze away from a far corner of the room to see that Madam Tsuyu was smirking fondly as she held a long, wide, but not especially deep wooden box in her hands. The older woman jerked her head down to the ground, and Katsumi looked down, finally noticing that she stood in the centre of a circle that seemed to encompass half the floor space, layered with so many different languages her brain struggled to even separate them, a startling number of different shapes, Euclidean and non, inscribed within various rings that got progressively smaller and more complicated as they drew closer to the centre, with smaller circles at points where the different shapes met the circumference of each ring. “What…?”

“This is our all-purpose ritual room. It is thaumaturgically and sorcerously isolated from the rest of the building, and indeed, the rest of the world. My husband uses it from time to time in the course of religious observance. I am not quite so pious as he, though I like to think I do my part. Since gaining her benison from the Crystal, Kyomi has gotten a great deal of use out of this as well. In time, when she is ready, she will invoke and bind each of her Summons by making use of this circle’s various configurations.”

“I thought she summoned her creatures from her grimoire…?”

“Eventually, yes. But a Summon does not respond to a call from so paltry a source. A proper ritual is needed—an item as a catalyst, the price paid in blood. Place a catalyst at the correct station, and the circle changes its configuration accordingly. Blood is given in tribute, and the invocation commences. The invocation ends once an accord is reached, and the proper information then appears in Kyomi’s grimoire. With my dearest husband’s religious observance, the process is a bit different, but we seem to be drifting rather far afield of the point,” Madam Tsuyu explained. “Regardless, in the time between rituals, this place also stores implements that most often find use in Kyomi’s  _ eminently  _ capable hands. Now, to instruction—as I was saying, there is more to coupling than activities that risk conception. The nights my daughter has spent bedding you have been fortunate, as she has been  _ impassioned.  _ And yet, there will be nights when she is not quite so eager, or perhaps quite so euphoric. On days like those, as her paramour, it falls to you to see to her well-being. One of the physical methods of this falls under the umbrella of ‘foreplay.’”

Then it clicked in Katsumi’s head, and she flushed crimson. “O-oh… I… I see…”

“Calm yourself, dear girl. It is not so onerous as all that, I assure you,” Tsuyu scoffed. “We will start small, and I shall be here to guide you through your learning. Now. First, we shall start with oral sex, and I should like to see where you are with regards to your natural aptitudes for it before I begin giving instruction, so, within this box are artificial members of varying sizes. You will take these down your throat one after another until we come upon one whose size is prohibitive for one reason or another. We will work our way up from there.”

The older woman moved to open the box, but paused with her hand on the latch. “Oh, and each size increase comes with the added benefit of the next being a more faithful reproduction of my daughter’s endowment. In case you needed  _ motivation. _ ”

The box opened.

Katsumi stared at the contents, and swallowed. She looked to the largest, and marvelled for a moment at the fact that she had taken something like that within her at least thrice before with little to no issue. Still, if it meant Ástríðr would look at her more, would praise her more and make that mortifying pleasure with its almost narcotic allure shoot through her… She nodded to herself, steeling her mind and affirming her resolve. She could do this. She  _ would  _ do this.

Madam Tsuyu deftly plucked forth the smallest, at twenty centimetres long. “Now then, little dragon, shall we begin?”

* * *

The afternoon had begun to wane when Mother finally released Katsumi from their little meeting. Ástríðr understood what had to have transpired behind the closed door of the ritual room, and her anger simmered at the thought, but when Katsumi descended the stairs from the second floor, coughing a bit but having no more difficulty with meeting Ástríðr’s eyes than was normal for the girl, she exhaled in relief and sagged a bit as the unconscious tension fled her body. Despite what prior experience told her Mother’s training entailed, it seemed nothing untoward had happened between Tsuyu and the girl, which, while unexpected, was far from unwelcome.

Kyomi and Kagura were still deep in either negotiations or arguments—it was sometimes difficult to discern one from the other when it came to the vii twins—over who got what cards for their decks, so Ástríðr made sure to pick a table that was not only out of earshot, but also out of the space that would be adversely affected by the raised voices the siblings sometimes adopted when their contrasting opinions on ‘card theory’, whatever that was, ignited a conflict or five. On that table was a platter covered with a silver domed cloche, beneath which was a meal she had tried—and failed, as she was famous for not only burning, but  _ charring _ , water—to prepare with her aggravated energy over the intervening hours. Thankfully, Father had interceded and started anew from the beginning, leaving only the most elementary tasks of food preparation for her to complete, and now she could share a meal with her beloved.

Upon catching sight of Ástríðr’s expression, which she hoped was inviting, Katsumi smiled and beelined for her table, sitting across from the elf with a prim sort of elegance that she envied somewhat. It was lacking that same grace that made the sword difficult for her to learn, to the point where though she was proficient with it, she would never be able to master the weapon, at least not without expending more time and effort than she considered worthwhile.

She lifted the cloche, and smiled as not only did Katsumi’s eyes widen, but her tail set about to swishing absently. “Did you make this?!”

“I wish I could say yes, but it was my father who prepared this, I’m afraid. I’m hopeless in the kitchen,” Ástríðr confessed. “The most I could do was prepare the components.”

“Ingredients,” Katsumi corrected off-handedly. “But thank you. I’m sure knowing you had a hand in this, however small it might have been, will make it taste better. Itadakimasu!”

The girl picked up the utensils and began to cut into the layered and tender meats, smiling when it hit her mouth even though she winced a tad as it slid, morsel by morsel, down her throat, while Ástríðr sat and attempted to force words to come to her mind.

After a few minutes, during which time, almost half the platter, meant to be shared by two, had disappeared, Katsumi’s smiles began to change tone, from excited to sober to somber, and finally to melancholy. It was at this last stage that Ástríðr finally found her tongue once more. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s silly. Just…” the girl sighed, the conflict clear on her face. “I recognise some of the meats here, some of the spices, and all of a sudden I started thinking of what I could make with them. But I haven’t…I haven’t cooked in years now. It was one of my few joys. Haruhi was horrible in the kitchen, you see, and while our parents were out or abroad, sometimes over a span of hours or days, one time for two weeks during a significant anniversary, I’d be the one to cook, or we wouldn’t eat. But Haruhi, useless though she was with food, always found ways to make it fun, filling the house with music that we’d sing and she’d dance to… 

“And then she was thrown out. I made sure I kept track of where she was, leaving food I made for her where she could find it, and hanging back to make sure she got it. But eventually, I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t keep checking on her and doing what I could while watching her wither away, powerless to do anything more. When she…died…well, that was when I stopped cooking altogether.” Katsumi sighed, and it was simultaneously in the present moment and years away. “It seems idiotic, but I find myself missing it.”

Desperately, almost violently, she wanted to wipe the shadows of sorrow from her love’s face, but she withheld such actions, knowing that not only did she need to give Katsumi time to hurt, so long as she didn’t begin to spiral, but also that she knew next to nothing about what she liked outside of the bedroom. And so, instead of slavishly following her impulse, she noted, “This is the first you’ve spoken of anything you like doing.”

“Well, there’s a reason for that,” Katsumi replied, smiling with a bitter edge. “It was not an exaggeration to call cooking one of my ‘few’ joys. Even now, I struggle to recall anything else, I’m afraid.”

“There must be  _ something, _ ” Ástríðr pressed, praying the girl didn’t notice how desperate she was to help.

Katsumi was midway through shaking her head, when she caught sight of the twins’ table, and paused for a bit, her countenance adopting a contemplative cast. “What is that?”

“It’s a card game. Heroes, I think,” Ástríðr replied, willing to follow where this non sequitur led, so long as it wasn’t down. “It’s made in Rosenfaire, for children. There are shops in the other Free Cities to sell them, but they’re few and far between, given how new the entire concept is. Heroes just so happens to be the first of its kind.”

“…I was never one for games, I’ll grant you,” Katsumi replied at length. “But the way they hold them and shuffle, I recognise several of the methods they use, though admittedly not by name. Kyomi in particular. Kagura has the dexterity for it, but not the head, it seems. 

“When I was younger, we had these superstitions. Silly ones, childish even, attributing personality traits to blood types or somesuch nonsense. We had foreign ones, too, though the popularity of those really varied. I had a deck of cards involved with a foreigner superstition, or tradition, I suppose, called Tarot. I learned about them and got a pack and taught myself the spreads, the associations and the interpretations, the shuffles, and so on. It brought me a measure of peace, though for the life of me I could never figure out why. 

“It just seemed as though the world suddenly made  _ sense  _ with the cards in my hands. I could feel my sorrows and woes bleed from me when I took the time to draw a spread or the like.” Katsumi’s gaze was far in the distance, her mind fixed on the subject of which she spoke. “Some boiled the cards down to mere fortune-telling, reducing them so as to make them easier to ridicule. But it wasn’t true. Not entirely. The Tarot wasn’t merely for fortune-telling, but rather for revealing hidden truths, whatever those truths were at the time. Fortune-telling was a part of it, yes, but never the  _ whole.  _ The cards…they were important to me, in ways that defy words.” 

Then, with a blink and a sigh, she returned to herself. “And you?”

“I’m…simpler, in some ways. Father made certain to train me to fight since the day I broke the arm of a bully several years my senior when he tried to withhold a toy of mine. I know axes inside out and backwards, but I’ve known music since I was a sprat. One of my earliest name-day gifts was a pan flute. I can play anything from a lute to a mandolin to a guitar, and though I’ve never really gotten to use keyed instruments, I’m sure I’d be able to play them, too, given time,” said Ástríðr. “I’d say I’ve gotten quite good at drawing, though I’m told that some of my sketches of live subjects are more…anatomical than intimate. My skill with painting is only passable, I’m afraid.

“As far as money goes, I deal in a valuable commodity for extra funds. We don’t need them, of course—Mother and Father could sustain themselves, Sonja, and me in far more affluent trappings comfortably for a few generations yet—but after a certain point, it didn’t feel right to continue to live here without giving back a bit.”

“I must confess, I would not know one end of a musical instrument from another, as much as I have wanted to learn in the past,” Katsumi remarked. 

“I could teach you, if you still have that desire,” Ástríðr offered.

Katsumi’s face bloomed into a small smile. “I think I’d like that. Though, I must confess, I’ve never seen you go into battle without a flute, as much as you seem to have a talent for closer combat. I…”

The words died in Katsumi’s mouth, and it looked as though she was choking on them as she averted her eyes and her face once more assumed the shade of red it had taken when Ástríðr had her with her back pressed up against a wall, entirely at her mercy. She could not stop a predatory grin forming. “You what? Don’t leave me in suspense, my love. I’m suddenly  _ very  _ interested in what you were about to say.”

“…” Katsumi’s fading-bruise lips remained so tightly closed they began to purse as she continued to scrutinise the floor.

“I’m  _ waiting. _ ”

“…I-I’ve…shown you mine…but…you haven’t shown me yours…?” Katsumi finally mumbled, looking for all the world like she wanted to sink into the chair and disappear, but was going to spontaneously combust instead.

Teasing the girl was like manna, but even manna had to be taken in moderation, so Ástríðr decided to spare her lover further mortification for the moment. “Kagura  _ has  _ noted that fighting Aunt Yuriya is the best foreplay she’s ever had. If it’s anywhere near as good of a pre-game as she claims, I suppose it’s worth a shot. Then again, I guess it’ll be a disappointment regardless; after all, I’ve never encountered an aphrodisiac more potent than you are all on your own.”

Given the frankly concerning shade of red Katsumi assumed, she supposed her ability to be merciful needed a lot more work. “What?! I don’t want you getting the wrong idea! It’s not like I wanted to use sparring to get you to sleep with me again or anything like that, idiot! You just seem to have a talent for violence that I wanted to share with you! That’s all!”

“Tsundere~!” Kyomi called in a sing-song voice.

“Urusai!” Katsumi snapped, crossing her arms and making a face that could be charitably called a pout. “…Uso tsuki…”

Kyomi nearly collapsed out of her chair with how hard she was laughing.

Then she yelped in shock and went entirely to the floor with a crash.

Looking supremely pleased with herself, Kagura leaned over to Kyomi’s side of the table and started rummaging through her sister’s cards. “Ya know, if you guys  _ really  _ wanna get acquainted outside of the whole breakin’ furniture and tearin’ sheets routine, can’t go wrong with a good old-fashioned sparring match. Cuz, well, it’s kinda hard for people to bullshit when they’re tryin’ to kill each other, after all.”

“…How long have you been listening in?” Ástríðr found herself asking.

“I mean, you guys are kinda hard to miss,” Kagura said, pointing to her long leporine ears illustratively. Then, her eyes went wide. “Ooh! Cursed Blade!”

* * *

Ástríðr looked for all the world to have been born with an axe in her hands given how she wielded it.

The weapon was a large, hafted thing, brutish yet elegant, with two heads like a labrys, and yet each head was bearded and artfully figured, the designs and the construction of the bearded heads fully Norse in origin, were Katsumi to venture a guess. The span from one edge to the other across the breadth of the weapon was nearly the distance from Ástríðr’s waist to the crown of her head, and the shaft of the great weapon, while appearing slender in her beloved’s grasp, was in truth quite thick and robust. To look upon it, Katsumi could not fathom lifting such a thing with two hands, let alone twirling it and performing handling tricks with only one as Ástríðr was at that moment.

It suited her.

“Got this one as a name-day gift when I reached my majority,” Ástríðr mused. “It’s a custom to give an elf entering adulthood a weapon to commemorate the occasion, something about ‘cutting their way to the future,’ or something equally sentimental. Of course, part of the tradition is naming the weapon, and so I did. This is Eisentänz er. Say hi,  Eisentänz er!”

Katsumi struggled mightily to suppress her nascent grin as she reached to free Deatheater from its scabbard on her back, the weapon sliding silently out into the air. Summoning it earlier that day had come naturally at the time, and yet she found the feat impossible to replicate; when she went to retrieve the sword, she could have sworn her weapon was  _ sullen  _ at being called so. The afternoon was beginning to wane, the sun three-fourths of the way through with its daily path from one horizon to the next, well-worn and unerring, and the black blade of the dark sword seemed to shiver as it glinted in the light, shimmering like water across the many patterns of its workings, before it rested with its point against the earth, balanced gently in anticipation. The sullen irritation it held was now dispelled; it awaited the hour much as she did. “To first blood, then, or to forfeiture, whichever comes first.”

“Of course,”  Ástríðr assented. Then, she paused. “Are you  _ sure  _ you want to go through with this, my love? There  _ are  _ other ways.”

“I’m afraid I shan’t be dissuaded from this course,” Katsumi replied, sliding from parade rest and into battle. “If you feel yourself unequal to the task before you, forfeiture remains an option. I shall not think less of you for taking it.”

Ástríðr’s eyes narrowed, the glint that sparked there like the beginnings of a blaze truly fearsome to behold. She shifted the greataxe from its perch on her shoulder and into a posture that was threateningly relaxed, both hands on the shaft of the oversized weapon that was held down near her waist, the massive head at a level with her hips. “And suddenly I do not feel so conflicted about this. Just remember, babe,  _ you asked for this. _ ”

The tension wound the air to a fevered pitch, nearly sparking, in the sheer moments that followed and stretched on to a seeming-eternity.

Then the tension snapped.

Deatheater flew upwards to deflect the falling of the axe upon Katsumi’s head; she remembered how her body moved as though caught in the grip of memory that morning, turning every last bit of Sonja’s momentum against her and feeling none the worse for it, as the angle of her parries were so very precisely calculated that the deflection was executed without any part of her weapon ever coming into contact with the shearing force of the sword, and here she did not fail to replicate the feat.

Yet it was with a great deal of readjustment from moment to moment that the hit was averted, and even then Katsumi’s fingers tingled as though remembering a sledgehammer. And then Eisentänzer was upon her once more, Ástríðr adapting with a speed that made Sonja’s treachery seem comparable to contesting a tortoise, leaving Katsumi hard-pressed.

She registered the ache in her jaw, and the fact that she did not have the leverage to parry this time; one foot went back, planting itself, her tail working to settle swiftly as the dancing edge closed on her. 

It was nearly too late; even so, the greataxe sparked upon Deatheater, and with a trial, its course was both diverted and thrown loose. Yes, there was the opening, and Katsumi entered the critical distance, surging forth to break Ástríðr’s flow.

In the span of that moment, Katsumi felt her leg catch, and she left the ground to the open air; then a sharp impact jolted saliva out of her mouth as she was shot to the ground.

Quickly.

Her tail lashed forth, hooking Ástríðr’s grip for a painful beat, giving Katsumi leave to place her hands onto the ground and spring backwards, recovering out of the leg sweep in a low crouch sudden and jarring enough that her tail was unequal to the task of keeping her upright, one hand planting itself onto the ground as her other was thrown out just a bit behind. She was unarmed, her sword on the grassy ground just behind Ástríðr. “Deatheater! To me!”

The sword stirred and shot towards Katsumi’s open grasp; yet, Ástríðr was in motion already and would reach her before her weapon could cross the distance.

When charged, especially by a musclebound, berserking Amazon just barely in excess of two metres in height, the terrifyingly-sized keen greataxe carving a sweet, shrill song of bloody rapture that rent the air, it is nearly beyond the capacity of the mortal psyche to do what is necessary. Instinct screams to retreat, or to avoid laterally, by some means or another. Of course, the only true way to survive the surging tempest never even occurs to them.

Katsumi snarled, eyes blazing to life, as she lifted up onto the balls of her feet and  _ launched  _ herself forward, looking to all eyes to be bound headfirst into Ástríðr’s path. The edge of Eisentänzer clove through the air, looking to catch her in her abdomen; Katsumi, however, lashed her tail down into the ground only long enough to flip herself back, and neither the breadth of a hair nor the space of a moment could fit in the margin by which the points of her horns evaded contact with the weapon.

Just clear of the greataxe’s twin heads and not a fraction of an instant later did Katsumi’s arm shoot up and pluck Deatheater’s hilt from its flight; thus secured, her other hand scraped the earth to turn her once more, the strain tearing her arm rather painfully from her shoulder socket, but giving her leave to plant her feet and gain control once more. The dislocation smarted, and would prove her end if she didn’t ameliorate the situation  _ immediately. _

_ What do I want? _

Shoulder back in socket, both arms working.

_ What do I have? _

An elf with her back turned for the moment, stress on  _ moment. _

_ How do I use the latter to achieve the former? _

In a pinch, slam the shoulder at the correct angle with sufficient force into an unyielding object. 

Ástríðr began to turn, using Eisentänzer’s momentum to lend celerity to her rotation. Darkness surged beneath Katsumi’s feet, her charge a streak of scarlet-and-sable. The very moment Ástríðr’s foot was planted to secure her balance at the end of the turn, Katsumi slammed into her chest shoulder-first.

She could have charged into a sheer cliff and found more give, but then, that only aided her cause. The snap of her shoulder joint rejoining anew was pleasing to feel reverberating through her horns and her bones, and the residual tenderness was surmountable in a way that the ongoing dislocation would not have been.

The threads of darkness snarled and spun out into chaotic oblivion, and Katsumi now was left to capitalise upon her inadvertent yet planned recoil to chain into an attack.

Of course, the smirk on Ástríðr’s face was indication enough that she had miscalculated.

Ástríðr turned away ever so slightly, lifting her leg and tucking her knee into the air; then, her foot lashed back down into the earth. The earth responded, sharp, jagged, curved teeth of stone shooting up so quickly that Katsumi could not so much as take a breath before continuing to retreat, pursued by stony spikes that fended her to a distance.

Her lungs were ever so slightly beginning to burn, her thoughts beginning to fractal in hopes of conceiving by some miraculous gamble, some providence of random chance; yet Ástríðr did not seem strained in the slightest. Indeed, although her eyes were alight with hungry, savage motes of blood-joy, the curl of her lips was unmistakably indulgent.

_ Katsumi was being toyed with. _

She drank deep of the darkness that roiled within, her blood racing acid-hot through fleshy veins, burning through her in agony beyond description, and she took it in as invigorating cordial. Her teeth ached as her jaw became yet more occupied, fangs poking into her gums; her scales seemed to advance, and though they were only as thick as her soft flesh, as always, their strength was obvious, and adamant would shatter from strain before so much as impressing them. Her nails grew, and on both her fingers and toes they were sharp and blackened, more akin to claws than the hume-like plates they had once been, while the air she exhaled misted as it left her mouth and nostrils, and her sight was many times sharper than it had been, provoking an idle wonder as to how a bird of prey might perceive the world, and if it was similar to what she saw at that moment.

Her tail lashed, and she bent her knees, tongues of writhing shadow and lashing dark swirling in agitation at her feet, pressing against the earth and taking to the air.

A front-flip truncated her arc that she might manage to not overshoot her target, and yet a lazy underhand swing of the greataxe with naught but a single hand gripping its haft halted her and sent her reeling back.

Her feet touched the ground for but a moment before springing back into something almost akin to a cartwheel, her distance gained. 

It took half the span of a gasp for Ástríðr to once more close the distance, Eisentänzer shrieking towards her once more. With no time, Katsumi threw forth her arm, and the greataxe’s bite was stymied, the scales on the limb holding firm and steadfast. She cast her arm out, overpowering the one-handed swing and sending the weapon into recoil. Darkness wreathed Deatheater’s blade, an underhanded swing of her own surging to provoke a retreat; yet, Ástríðr’s off-hand closed once more at its appointed place.

In a split second before doom descended, Katsumi noticed her lover’s tempestuous aura fulminating ominously, and saw that in batting aside the hewing armament, she had begun the motion of the weaponskill her lover prepared at that moment.

“Gale Force.”

The greataxe flashed forth into Katsumi’s side, and a trio of flaming, sparking rings, each large enough to capture her entire range of motion, closed in on her, spinning with such unnatural speed that it seemed the world itself was torn apart in their manic revelry. They tore away at her clothes and even through her scales, drawing forth small, thin ribbons of blood that stung harshly, far more so than they ought.

Ástríðr was turned away, wrenching her weapon upwards across Katsumi’s body, from hip to shoulder, and then with a jolt did the greataxe pull free; just as swiftly as they had appeared and enclosed upon her did those rings of lashing wind and revelling lightning spin away from her and into the ether from whence they were drawn.

Katsumi was thrown back a ways, landing harshly on her rear, and released the darkness back to the pool that was now almost a physical presence, just to the left of her sternum and sharing company with her lungs… The scales retreated once more, the claws following suit, her pupils dilating as her fangs slipped back into teeth and her blood cooled from the frothing, dissolving corrosion to its normal state. Breath could not come quickly enough of a sudden, and blood ran freely down her limbs and torso, no wound deep enough to be a cause for concern of itself, but when considered together, presenting something of a strain.

Ástríðr drew close, a slight swagger in her lope as her weapon returned to its shouldered perch, and much to Katsumi’s chagrin, the only expression  _ she _ could muster was sullen wincing. “Best two out of three? Or are you satisfied?”

Katsumi huffed, blowing an errant lock of raven hair out of her face. “ _ Why  _ does Sonja think she can protect you again? Seems like it really ought to be the other way around.”

“My idiot sister had her uses once upon a time. Turns out, metallokinesis is a damn useful ability to have in a large number of situations. Go figure,” Ástríðr explained glibly.

“…Is it not customary to help a lady stand?” Katsumi jested.

“Yeah, probably,” replied Ástríðr. “Not now, though. You can stay there a little longer, I think. I quite like the sight of you on your knees.”

Katsumi had just enough time to curse the knowledge that Madam Tsuyu had bestowed upon her not even an hour ago before mortifying flames engulfed her mind and her face. She turned her head aside, and heat spread across her chest, the impulse to deflect swelling to overwhelming proportions. “I thought we were here to get to know each other! Isn’t that why we did this whole sparring bout to begin with?!”

“Yes, well,” Ástríðr began, leaning over and gripping Katsumi’s chin, her grasp gentle but firm as she tilted Katsumi’s head up to meet her smouldering stare. “At the moment, I find myself desiring to ‘know’ you in a rather… _ different _ sense.” 

Katsumi’s breath stilled, her lungs betraying their purpose as her chest constricted around a writhing core of desire, of want, of  _ adoration,  _ a need for which lust was far too small a word, and for a few moments stretching on to the end of days, her cheeks seared as she could not physically pry her eyes away from Ástríðr’s piercing gaze, and she would have been similarly incapacitated, she knew, were the hand on her chin to disappear entirely. Then the older woman’s silver brow quirked. “Your blood… I thought it was simply a trick of the light every time I saw it, but no, my eyes have yet to deceive me, it seems. I didn’t know drahn bled black…”

Katsumi’s eyes went wide as she brought an arm up before her. Surely enough, when she looked, streaks of Stygian fluid with the consistency of blood streamed from her open wounds, wounds that she could feel and was aware of, but that awareness was entirely apart and fully distinct from pain. 

“They don’t, I don’t think. Else, people would have noticed, and we’d be called ‘blackbloods’ in addition to the usual litany of entirely derivative racial epithets,” Katsumi mused. She brought her hand up and clenched it into a fist as she thought. “No, this is not a function of being a drahn; rather, it is most likely a product of the covenant.”

“…That probably warrants examination. Diseases of the humours aren’t things to be screwed around with,” Ástríðr remarked, worry creeping in at the edges of her tone. “It’s not quite as bad as if you were, say, a black mage, but the fact that your race subsists on the magic of your blood makes it almost as concerning.”

Katsumi shook her head. “I think not. I think…this is expected. If it were truly a malady, I do believe that either Mercédès would have volunteered that information, or she is similarly afflicted; given that we were not given cause to suspect this, and that there are not kyūdōgi-clad sentinels bashing down the door at this very moment, I’d fain to say I’ll survive it.”

She leaned back into the grass, rolling onto her shoulder-blades, and from there she sprang to her feet. A few flicks of her tail and she was upright, though she yet only came up to around Ástríðr’s oddly prodigious bust, and she imagined that the rather vast difference in height would look comical to an onlooker. For perhaps the first time, Katsumi was intimately aware of how diminutive she was in stature, especially compared to the company that she kept—or that kept her, as was the case with her first love. 

She sighed. “Did you at least get anything out of this?”

“I learned how fun it is to trounce you,” Ástríðr replied with a teasing gleam.

“I have a long way to go,” Katsumi said by way of half-hearted defence. “Forget it. Want to just adjourn to the kitchen? I feel we may get better mileage out of simply exposing ourselves to each other’s interests through mutual instruction than from sparring.”

“What, you don’t want to fuck?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Katsumi protested. “It’s just that we have all night to do that, and if at every occasion and opportunity we elect to… _ engage in those activities,  _ we’ll never get around to the purpose for which we came out here and sparred in the first place.”

“If you say so,” Ástríðr said, crossing her arms and cocking a brow.

Katsumi stopped, closed her eyes and tried to pretend she was reciting the next words to Madam Tsuyu in preparation to say them to Ástríðr, rather than face the mortifying reality that she  _ was  _ in fact saying them to her. “…I’ll have to wear an apron, you know, and I don’t exactly have a lot of clothes that I’d feel comfortable getting dirty with cooking residue. If, as I am thusly attired, you find yourself compelled to…capitalise…upon such a state of vulnerability, I would be loath to hold that against you.” 

There was a protracted pause that followed, and Katsumi hesitantly opened her eyes to better gauge Ástríðr’s reaction to her rather salacious proposition. The visible struggle that twisted Ástríðr’s face as she attempted not to grin was at once galvanising and paralysing. “I’ll be honest. You’re really cute when you get all flustered, but it’s impressive to hear you say that with so little hesitation. A little surreal, too.”

Katsumi shrugged. “What can I say? Facing you, I grow weak.” 

* * *

“You’re late.”

Katsumi looked up at the dreary grey sky, the curtain of night thinning as dawn approached, and regarded the woman before her with some degree of skeptical incredulity. “I left as soon as I got the missive, and it’s not even dawn yet…” 

Dame Rienna’s approximation of a smile amounted to a pressing together of her thin lips and a slight lift to the corners, imperceptible if one wasn’t expressly looking for it, and Katsumi got the sense that the knight-captain and princess dowager was exaggerating her usual expression for her benefit. “If you aren’t early, you’re late. The fact that I had to send the missive at all was an issue in and of itself. You were not previously informed, it seems—I am not surprised she neglected to mention that yesterday, as Her Grace always  _ has  _ enjoyed these little games of hers—and so I shall be lenient for today, and today only. You will be here before the break of dawn three days a week, and at no later than the hour of midmorning  _ exactly  _ will you be here on the Beherit. Being as it is a day of respite, I should think you would have no obligations, and so it is at that point every week that we shall begin to recover lost ground. I would have preferred to have you training more regularly and rigorously in an ideal scenario, but given the irregularities of the situation, that will have to suffice.”

“Wait,  _ training?! _ ”

“…I had not thought you a dullard, girl, and hard of hearing you are not,” said Rienna.

“I was  _ asking  _ for you to elaborate,” Katsumi clarified. “When last I checked, one in your position of power has better things to do than tutour an adventurer in swordplay.”

“I do indeed,” Rienna allowed. “However, here I must enumerate several caveats to the situation at hand that render such an observation functionally irrelevant. First and foremost,  _ you  _ are no mere adventurer. Or did you believe the sobriquet of ‘Fallen One’ idly given or misattributed?”

Katsumi froze, but in moments had control of herself once more. She needed more information, and  _ quickly. _ “And the second caveat?”

“The second caveat is that even given who you are, it would be a waste of both of our times to aid you in learning swordplay. No, my task here is to instruct you in all the myriad elements and varied complexities of warcraft. Or did you think Her Grace travelled to the Rouge, exposing herself and all of you to possibly perilous scrutiny, without at least a handful of reasons to do so, the existence of which rendering the trip a necessity?”

“I take it Tandem and Madam Tsuyu assented to this on my behalf,” Katsumi surmised.

Rienna nodded, a quick and severe bob of her head. “Indeed. They would be the people to ask, considering the fact that you are their ward in the eyes of the law, and they are thus solely responsible for you as it relates to the matter of your education.”

“And here I thought Maelnaulde lacked standardised schooling…”

“We do, as the lowborn are far too numerous and far too varied in means for such an arrangement to be even remotely feasible. Members of the peerage, however, are a different matter entirely, and it simply wouldn’t do for the principal cadet branch to defy House Lucerne. The station of House Desrosiers is shackled with such responsibility, I’m afraid,” Rienna explained. “To put it simply, as I’m now certain this is the first you’re hearing of any of this, the education of highborn children is strictly regulated, and falls under the purview of investiture. As the newest member of House Desrosiers—Tandem is anointed, and therefore ennobled—Tsuyu and her husband were expected to make arrangements with regards to your education, and as a cadet branch, after a fashion, the Desrosiers family is expected to consult with the Lucernes on such arrangements.

“Congratulations, Katsumi of the Fallen Rain. As of this moment,  _ I  _ am charged with your education,” Dame Rienna finished with a bow that was barely more than a tilt of her head, but was also somehow laden with subtle mockery. “There is much you must learn and little time in which to learn it, but I believe it to be at least within your capabilities. Do not disappoint me.”

Katsumi crossed her arms. “What’s the occasion?”

Rienna quirked a brow. “Pardon?”

“The name with which you addressed me tells me that you were at least as aware of my existence and arrival as the Apostles. If I am not mistaken, Frey, the one who found me in the Crystal Chamber near to the shore, was of their number. If they were given leave to expect me in such a way, and you are privy to the same source of information as they are, why  _ now,  _ and not shortly after my arrival?”

“Why don’t _you_ tell _me?_ _Enthrall_ me with your acumen.” The knight crossed her own arms, levelling a flat stare at Katsumi.

Assessment, then. She could work with that.

“An alliance,” Katsumi ventured. 

Rienna blinked. “And how do you come to  _ that _ conclusion?”

“You did not secure me earlier, as that would have engendered suspicion you would have rather avoided. But that does not mean the urgency of my acquisition was in any way diminished. I know very little of the geopolitical situation of this world, but, as the newest member of a cadet branch, as you said, and the only one capable of procreation that is not either promised to a notorious marauding murderer or a high-ranking diplomat in Maelnaulde’s service, neither of which possessing toes upon which it would be wise to step, especially in the midst of such tense negotiations, my ovaries are a valuable diplomatic tool of the state by default,” Katsumi explained. “As I am now tied to House Lucerne, you wished to lay claim to me to seal an alliance by virtue of marriage, with myself as the offered bride.”

“Top marks for effort and the chain of logic you followed, but no,” replied Rienna. “Though I suppose it is unrealistic to expect more of you considering your position of, shall we say,  _ relative ignorance. _

“There is to be a marriage, and an alliance, but you are not the bride,” Rienna continued. “The bride is Jeanne Evalach Galatyn, Duchess and Heiress Presumptive of the Grand Duchy of Rosenfaire—the Grand Duke of Rosenfaire, Lucien Hauteclaire Galatyn of the Heirs of Zilart, is her older brother. She is to be married to Mercédès in half a turn of the moon, in what will be perhaps the most politically significant joining in the last several centuries. In observance of this, Mercédès, and by extension, Maelnaulde, is holding a series of celebrations both before and after the date of the nuptials. Predictably, the other two of the Free Cities, the Federation of Emberlet and the Republic of Bantamoor, are sending their most illustrious adventuring companies to participate in the tourney, and Her Grace thought it would be a powerful symbol for Maelnaulde to have a favoured adventuring company of their own to take part; of course, this only works if said company is suitably qualified to not only represent Maelnaulde, but also sweep the tournament. If the other member cities are attempting to intimidate us with a show of strength, we must not only respond in kind—we must demonstrate to them the sheer futility of their posturing.”

“While this is all very interesting, Dame Rienna, and it  _ is  _ very interesting,” Katsumi began, “I fail to see what this has to do with  _ me. _ ”

“Come now, girl, you’ve  _ just  _ proven you’re smarter than that,” Rienna replied without missing a beat.

“I…” Then it all clicked. “You want  _ us _ to represent Maelnaulde?!”

“You see? I  _ knew  _ you weren’t a dullard.”

“…So  _ that’s  _ why now,” Katsumi realised. “We’re not in a position to represent the principality, and so you’re going to train us until we are.”

“Correction: I’m going to train  _ you  _ until you are,” said Rienna. “My esteemed daughter’s favourite plaything will receive her own remedial attentions, but doing so personally would be a waste of my valuable time. _ You,  _ however… 

“As for the rest of them, dearest Yuriya knows to get her charge in fighting shape, you’ve  _ seen  _ your paramour, witnessed her prowess first-hand, and Kyomi is and always has been far more powerful and proficient than she allows others to believe. Yet, though a warrior is comprised of five limbs—a hume or elf warrior, for the sake of argument—of them, the head is the most important, for it is the head that will direct the synergy of the other limbs. It must thus be trained the hardest, be pushed the furthest and the most fervently, for the demands placed upon it in battle shall be the greatest.” The knight fixed her pitiless, relentless maroon scrutiny to Katsumi’s wide violet eyes, and with a series of quick, indefatigable strides, she closed the distance between them, leaving Katsumi with no retreat, transfixed by the severe woman. “Ástríðr Desrosiers may well be a great warrior—near peerless for one so young, in fact—and she is certainly passionate. But she is no leader. She lacks that ephemeral quality that shall make men eager to fight and die by your command, that od that will spark fires in the hearts of all those who lay eyes upon you. I say this to you: You have within you the strength of heart and of mind to be a great captain, a legendary and unrivalled soul of war. And before I am done with you, there shall be no one who will contest that.

“Even the most precious and beautiful jewel of breathtaking splendour must be polished and cut to achieve its fullest brilliance. That thing within you, your dark soul—I will draw it out of you, piece by piece. This I  _ swear  _ to you.”

Then Dame Rienna backed away, and tread across the packed sands of the training ground towards the racks against the side of the sand pit adjacent to the striking dummies, upon which rested a full array of blunted steel weapons. The walls of Ridorana Monastery enclosed the courtyard, creating a secluded space far away from the cares and woes of Maelnaulde proper, a buffer only aided by the fact that not even the highest echelons of nobility were permitted within the Coronet without invitation. That said, Katsumi could feel the eyes of the sentinels from the day before upon her from the darkened corners of the corridors beyond the pit’s boundaries. This was  _ their  _ space, she felt them thinking, and though she might have been blessed as they were, she was  _ not  _ one of them.

A two-handed tourney sword flying at her snapped her from her daze even as she caught it effortlessly. Dame Rienna approached her with her arming sword in one hand, her scutum in the other. “It might not be quite as well-balanced as that kriegsmesser you normally swing around, and it’s not half so fine besides. But I believe it will do the job.

“I know where you are currently, and Yuriya corroborated that assessment, so we’re skipping the warm-up. I’m going to come at you armoured, with live steel. Your job is to incapacitate me with that training weapon and unarmoured before I do the same to you. Once you can do that, oh, I’d say twenty consecutive times, we’ll move on to the next stage,” Dame Rienna explained. “There will be many times where you will find yourself with no choice but to face such a foe that puts you at a significant disadvantage. If you can learn to surmount such fetters, well, I’d say you’ll be truly on the path at the end of which lies true indomitability. We will go every day until you can go no longer—not until  _ you  _ think you can go no longer, mind you, we go until you can  _ truly  _ go on no longer. It would be foolish to trust in the goodwill of your foe to grant you respite amidst a mortal struggle, and you would be more fool still to trust it should they grant it. Do you understand, girl?”

Katsumi nodded, smoothly moving into her battle stance.

Rienna didn’t smile, but her nod as she mirrored the move from conversation into battle was unmistakably approving. “Very well. Then shall we begin?”

* * *

Their appointment was at one hour past midday. The instructions were very precise; they were to be neither a moment early, nor a moment late, or the whole arrangement would be called off. Sonja was indisposed, and Ástríðr reassured Katsumi that the obligation was no more than the remedial training Dame Rienna had mentioned earlier that very day. The appointment was with the woman who was, while a relatively unknown up-and-comer, without question, the best blacksmith in not only Maelnaulde, but all across the Free Cities—as Prince Mercédès had assured them multiple times in the missive she sent to inform them of the appointment and its relevant details. 

The manor they arrived at, precisely on time, was architecturally capricious to say the least, and the forge it boasted was so massive that the billowing plumes of black smoke coming from its furnace were visible from half the city’s distance away. From what little Ástríðr had explained about her father’s illegitimate daughter on the way there, the house was a reflection of its primary occupant. From the front steps, Katsumi could hear the clashing of hammer upon anvil, the hiss of quenching, and a  _ very  _ enthusiastic mezzo-soprano yelling sets of orders and exclamations with almost indecipherable speed. The din was quite the sensory affront, though not unmanageably so, but to a great enough degree all the same that she was genuinely shocked when the door opened as they approached.

In the threshold there stood a…butler. Given his state of dress, there was no other way he could be described. The man’s skin was a hue like Katsumi’s own, and while he was not remarkably tall for a man, he was tall enough to be imposing. His hair was inky and from the front seemed to run down his back unbound, his features sharp and dour, though not uncomely, and covered on one half of his face with long bangs parted on one side. His wine-red gaze was narrowed and lidded, yet it seemed that it stripped away falsehoods all the same, and upon the thin bridge of his slender, scholarly nose, were perched a silver-rimmed set of pince-nez. 

“Welcome to the Blackwood Townhouse. I am Taliesin Blackwood,” the butler said after a moment, his voice low, but his diction crisp enough to be heard even through the noise. “It is good to see that you can be punctual. Miss Rhiannon was expecting you. She is…quite inspired by the prospect of the commissions Her Grace has made in your name. If you will follow me.”

Taliesin turned away and led back into the house, his hair flowing like silk with the small motion, and Katsumi noted idly that it  _ was  _ bound, somewhere on the order of two-thirds down, with a small red ribbon, and his hands were covered in white gloves. She did not know why that mattered, especially since such garments were expected of someone in his position as far as Katsumi could tell, but her mind focused on it all the same, as though attempting to use it to unearth a long-buried recollection.

Nevertheless, such considerations could wait at present, as there were more pressing matters at hand; this in mind, Katsumi crossed the threshold first, and Ástríðr followed behind swiftly. It was the two of them only this time, as Kyomi and Kagura had had alternative arrangements made for them, namely a tailor and seamstress, chosen with Yuriya’s input, but according to Mercédès, they could expect to have Rhiannon at their disposal in the future if all went well. Katsumi was uncertain of what precisely that remark meant, beyond feeling that, as usual, there was more communicated in that assurance than she would be able to decipher at present.

“I have been informed that Miss Katsumi may have a preference for flavours that remind her of her homeland,” Taliesin began as he led them through the entry hall, panelled in dark wood and lit in warm tones that made the various weapons and pieces of armour on display glitter noticeably, past the sweeping grand staircase crafted of the same dark wood, over floors covered by heavy, springy burgundy carpets, and into a set of doors off to the side of the stair that led deeper into the house. “To that end, I have taken the liberty of procuring additional matcha for the occasion—Miss Fèng, Miss Rhiannon’s wife, tends to be especially voracious in its consumption. Miss Ástríðr, I do hope you have not developed a distaste for bergamot since last we took tea together.”

“Bergamot would be lovely, Taliesin,” Ástríðr replied smoothly.

“May I inquire as to the purpose of this line of inquiry…?” Katsumi asked hesitantly. 

“Miss Rhiannon prefers to make her commissioners comfortable while she discusses the subject of the work with them,” Taliesin elaborated. “She enjoys taking tea during such times, and I enjoy making it. Tea brewing is…something of a hobby of mine.”

Silence endured for a few moments thereafter, until Katsumi found she had to shatter it once more. “How do you know each other? Ástríðr and you, I mean, not you and Master Rhiannon.”

“Rhiannon’s mother was my sister,” replied Taliesin. “Dearest Rhonwen, ever the free spirit, has since left and been abroad in the Maelstrom for the span of five-and-ten now, and my niece fell to my care—my remaining sister Myfanwy has never been especially fond of children, you see, though she contributes a great deal as it relates to means and opportunities for our dear prodigal sister’s wonderful sapling.

“In addition, before Dame Rienna, able as she is, became knight-captain, I held the station myself. Grand Marshal of the Principality, in fact, under Her Grace’s father, the late Prince Marique le Bel,” the butler continued. “I had been planning to retire for some time upon the event of Rhonwen’s indiscretion—her pregnancy and Rhiannon’s birth merely gave me an opportunity to exit gracefully. In that way, it was fortunate; I must confess, I had grown tired of war. But it was in that capacity that I made the acquaintance of His Grace’s champion, and that acquaintance has continued ever since, to the point where I was tasked with aiding in the tutelage of his trueborn children. I trust Ástríðr has not been lax in her training?”

“That she has not been,” Katsumi answered.

Taliesin smiled, and while it was kindly, it did not reach his eyes. “That is good to hear. In any event, we have arrived.”

Katsumi snapped her attention to where they were, and beyond having traversed a long, branching corridor decorated with arms and armaments in lieu of the more common trappings of nobility, such as paintings, statues, and tapestries—weapons of all descriptions, in fact, including ones that she remembered from history lessons in her youth, and several that defied her ability to name them, it was as the entry hall had been. Before them, though, was a massive slab of a door, the sort of which she would expect on a bank vault, crafted from iron.

“I must ask you to stand back, Miss Katsumi. Cold iron tends to be… _ unpleasant  _ for your people,” Taliesin warned over his shoulder, and Katsumi stepped back accordingly, while the butler placed a hand on the spoked wheel and yanked it, sending it spinning as the sudden hiss of steam sheared through the corridor, scalding and swift with the release of pressure. Then with the groaning of machinery, the door swung open, and from what Katsumi could see, the port was at least five centimetres thick. But beyond it was…

Katsumi had never been to the heart of an active volcano, but she surmised its glow could not be far removed from what met her eyes beyond the boundary of the threshold. 

Before her eyes adjusted, there in the doorway stood a woman of an age with Katsumi, though appearing for all the world a hume, which was doubly apparent given the fact that her rounded ears were clearly visible. Square-rimmed silver spectacles rested before a pair of tired yet piercing magenta eyes, sweeping and tousled hair the same peculiar purple shade as the night sky shot through with locks of bright pink covering her forehead and framing her mousey, demure Japanese—or rather, Far Eastern—features, her cutesy face entirely at odds with the unflinching relentlessness of her stare and the subtle but distinct downturn of her small mouth. Her skin was dark and tanned, though not to the point of suggesting a mixed ethnicity, and from her delicate head came a slender neck and petite body garbed in a vermillion qipao, the garment figured with golden thread and filigree in elaborate yet abstract decorations. “Uncle, this is a  _ terrible  _ time.”

“On the contrary, miss, as I come bringing Rhiannon’s appointment,” Taliesin gently countered, before standing to the side. “May I introduce Miss Katsumi of the Fallen Rain. You know Miss Ástríðr already. Miss Katsumi, this is Miss Fèng, the lady of the house.”

Fèng stepped forward, and Katsumi could not help but notice her feet were bare, as were her legs. Given how Katsumi could feel the heat of the area beyond even through her boots and was shielded from discomfort only by virtue of her dragon blood, she could not imagine how a hume such as the one now staring at her appraisingly could bear up under such conditions. The magenta gaze flickered up and down the drahn’s body until the hume nodded to herself. “You’ll do. Come. Rhiannon’s off on one of her fits of inspiration at the moment, but she’ll tire herself out soon enough and be ready to discuss what we’ll be able to do for you.”

“The missive insisted that we be on time, but if she’s not ready, we can return later,” Katsumi offered.

“Trust me, you’re better off just waiting,” said Fèng, waving the objection off with an errant, bony hand as she turned back to the inferno. “Oh, and for clarity’s sake,  _ I  _ was the one who insisted on punctuality. My wife would forget  _ breathing  _ amidst forging were I not here to remind her, so  _ I  _ am the one tasked with making the business arrangements. It’s a difficult job, but I would be lying if I said it was thankless.”

The hume walked from the house into the scorching heat that radiated ceaselessly from the massive forge, the white-hot flames leaping high into the air from the stone enclosure, made from…obsidian? Yes, massive blocks of obsidian glass surrounded the forge, and on their surface were carved an array of characters that far outstripped even the ritual room’s linguistic and organisational intricacy. A string of them were glowing faintly, a low but ethereal blue, while away from them and on the adjacent side of the forge, thrusting her bare hand without hesitation into what looked to be white-hot magma, and drawing forth a long, thin bar of metal in a large arc that ended upon the massive anvil she had nearby, was a woman.

Her skin was fair and she stood tall, almost as tall as Ástríðr, and lean where Ástríðr had noticeable muscle mass. Her long, lush, and voluminous golden hair was drawn up into a tail high on her head, yet it still fell to her waist, with more besides as bangs over a face that was, by most conventional standards, attractive. Her eyes glinted like lightning bolts in the reflection of the forge, and her full lips were pulled back into a broad grin as her body worked beneath her revealing, sheer red dress that looked to be made of silk, decorated with sweeping bands and clasps of glittering gold. Her legs, clad in loose white trousers that stopped in golden rings just beneath her knee, and her feet, shod in pointed and upturned red shoes, were planted for balance and power as she brought what looked like a large warhammer over her head with both hands, and then swung it down at the strip of metal on the anvil with calamitous force.

“Oh, good. It looks like she’s moving into the final forging before it goes into the furnace for tempering. It’s by its nature a long, slow process that is only marginally expedited by magical means, so we ought to have plenty of time to discuss matters while that’s happening,” Fèng remarked happily. She then strode briskly by the forge without hesitation, waving them to follow her, while Taliesin bowed and made his exit. “Come, there’s a table out near the fountain, away from the forge, where we can sit and wait while remaining out of her way. Rhiannon doesn’t take kindly to distractions when she is, and I quote, ‘in the zone.’”

“Rhi-Rhi can get a little…intense…about smithing. Making things that bring or prevent death is kind of her passion, and her specialty is with metal,” Ástríðr added helpfully.

“Quite,” Fèng remarked flatly. “Shall we?”

Moving past the forge rendered Katsumi amazed that not only did the hume woman, Fèng, show no signs of discomfort, but neither did Ástríðr; to look at them, it seemed for all the world like they only felt a late spring breeze, and nothing more unpleasant than that. As for Katsumi, the enchantments drew her eye unerringly, and her mind laboured at the puzzle, certain that the characters ought to make sense to her. It was akin to that uniquely agonising feeling of having an utterance rest stubbornly upon the tip of one’s tongue.

Thankfully, their arrival at the little social area, far enough removed from the forge to render the volcanic heat down to that of a strong summer sun, allowed her to put such quandaries from her mind; as Fèng beckoned, she and Ástríðr were seated, though the fourth seat remained empty in observance of their last member.

The silence was just beginning to stretch into the territory of awkwardness when the relentless titanic clamour of hammering halted, and the now blade-shaped length of metal, its white heat having cooled to a vibrant orange hue, was taken from the forge to a low stone trough and laid in there, a harsh hiss scalding through the air as pink steam rose. For two minutes it sat there, cooling, and then that bare hand once more lifted it from the trough and brought it to a nearby furnace, a squat dome that looked to be made of adobe.

With a billowing of orange-blue flames, the large oven-like structure was opened, the now-glittering, lustrous blade placed into it and then enclosed within. The woman, Rhiannon, exhaled in satisfaction, dusted her hands off, and approached with a broad smile. She crashed into the last open chair in something just this side of a heap, and sighed. “That ought to take a few hours.”

“Three?” asked Fèng.

“Mm… Best make it four,” Rhiannon replied.

“I’ll make a note of it.”

“Thanks, love. Don’t know what I’d do without you.” Then Rhiannon turned her electric blue eyes, no more than a shade removed from Ástríðr’s, to her half-sister, and grinned. “Ástríðr! What are you doing here, sis?”

“They’re your thirteen-hundred,” Fèng said off-handedly.

“Ah! Well, that’s a pleasant surprise!” Rhiannon noted. “What brings you here?”

“Armour, or so I’m told,” Ástríðr answered. “For both me and my Katsumi here.”

Katsumi did her best not to flinch as the warmth Ástríðr’s possessive phrasing provoked in her surged from her low abdomen and through her body, an endeavour greatly aided by the new pair of curious eyes turned towards her. “Well. You’re new. Can’t say I’ve seen you before.”

“I’ve been with the family for a little under a week now,” replied Katsumi. “More specifically, I arrived the night before the last Beherit.”

“Mm. Not terribly dynamic, is she?” Rhiannon remarked, turning back to Ástríðr. “She’s slight, lean, and vertically challenged to boot. I’ll admit that the horns might pose a bit of an issue when it comes to helm construction, but beyond that?  _ You  _ I’ve already wanted to build for, but  _ her? _ She’s not the  _ slightest  _ bit interesting!”

Katsumi placed a hand upon Ástríðr’s arm. She had no idea if that would set her off, but it was better to be safe than sorry, and head it off in either case. “Would you like to see my weapon, Rhiannon?”

Rhiannon shrugged, her eyes already wandering about the area as her leg started jostling. “Sure. Just another boring sword, most likely.”

“A sword, yes,” Katsumi allowed, reaching up and unfastening her baldric. Unshouldering the blade, she apologised mentally to her kriegsmesser for putting him on display in such a fashion, before drawing him out of the scabbard and laying him upon the table. “The  _ boring  _ part, however, I think is a matter of debate.”

Rhiannon’s bored and lidded gaze widened to the size of saucers, and Katsumi could swear for a moment that her pupils had turned to glittering stars in excitement. “What is  _ that?! _ ”

“A dark sword,” replied Katsumi. “His name is Deatheater.”

“Spooky name. Not terribly fitting, though, not as far as I can tell,” Rhiannon remarked as she reached forth and pressed her fingers to the exposed black metal of the blade. “More a descriptor than a name, really. Bundled up nice and tight, this one is—I’d say twelve seals is going a touch overboard, but then, I wasn’t the one responsible for forging him, was I?  _ Crystals  _ you’re a beauty! Touch awkward, though. Don’t much like people, do you? Seems like you and your wielder are two antisocial peas in a pod, doesn’t it?”

_ How much longer must I endure this woman’s scrutiny? _

Katsumi stiffened.  _ …Deatheater? _

_ Obviously. _

_ Are you…uncomfortable?  _ Katsumi asked the sword.

_ Immensely. I was more than willing to forbear it so that you would be better protected, but this woman is far too perceptive, and I feel naked beneath her gaze. It is…unpleasant. _

Katsumi nodded. To Rhiannon, she said, “That’s quite enough for now, I’m afraid.”

Rhiannon pouted slightly as Katsumi took Deatheater by the hilt and slid him home once more into his scabbard, but she soon nodded. “Aye, I understand. I apologise—it’s simply been so long since I’ve seen one of his kind, and I have not seen another quite like him, so I suppose I grew a touch overeager.”

_ Apologies, Master. _

_ You have nothing to apologise for,  _ Katsumi replied. “You are quite proficient, Rhiannon. Not even the man who forged him was aware of Deatheater’s true nature.”

“Yes, well…” Rhiannon began, rubbing at the back of her head and favouring her with a blinding smile. “I’ve always had a bit of a talent, a bit of a way with weapons. Most are quite terrible conversationalists, to be honest—hearing an endless litany of blades screaming at you to let them  _ cut  _ something gets old and repetitive very quickly—but there are those rare few with minds of their own, and they’re almost always  _ fascinating. _ ”

“So, will you make her armour?” prompted Ástríðr.

“Oh, of course,” Rhiannon said with a sharp nod. “Uh, Katsumi, right? Katsumi, would you please stand and give me a twirl? I have a design in mind already, I just need to see what  _ specifically  _ I’m working with, you understand.”

Katsumi furrowed a brow, labouring as she was under the assumption that there would be rather more questions posed to her than to simply twirl, but she assented all the same, standing and stretching a bit to work out the kinks forming in her limbs from being seated after her morning with Dame Rienna, before doing a spinning twirl.

“Can you go en pointe?”

Katsumi nodded, and concentrated, lifting herself onto the balls of her feet, and then further, onto the tips of her toes, for the first time feeling slightly challenged with balance as her tail swished behind her, working to compensate. Then she carefully tiptoed around on that posture in a small turn, going around before meeting Rhiannon’s approving and thoughtful eyes. “Very good, very good. I have what I need. Ástríðr, I got yours earlier, so no need to worry about that. Is Sonja going to come?”

“No idea,” Ástríðr said with a shrug. “I am not my sister’s keeper.”

“Hmm. Well, I suppose we’ll smash that bridge when we get to it,” the blacksmith mused idly. “Still, I’d best get to work. Got a fresh supply of mithril from the new mine that was just cleared—Mercédès told me I have you lot to thank for  _ that _ —and now I think I know what I’m going to do with it. Come back in, oh, twelve days or so for the final fitting, Fèng will follow up to make more precise arrangements, I’m sure. Fèng, dear?”

“Already noted,” replied Fèng with a sigh, standing and rushing away even as Taliesin approached with a tray laden with a full tea spread. The butler placed it upon the table, bowing and making his exit once more, as Rhiannon grinned broadly and jabbed her thumb at herself. 

“Mark my words, you two! You’ll both have armour worthy of Her Grace’s champions by the time of the tourney, or my name’s not Rhiannon merch Rhonwen of House Blackwood!” Rhiannon’s winning smile dazzled Katsumi’s eyes enough to leave spots for a few moments, before her attention slid to the spread before her, and her countenance shifted once more to beaming excitement. “Ooh! _ Macarons! _ ”


	12. The Laughing Tree

Ten thousand gil wasn’t an exorbitant sum of money, all things considered, but it went a surprisingly long way when their arms were already secured and their armour was being paid for by a third party. With the sudden elimination of costs, the chest began to sit there as a sort of discretionary stipend for the fledgeling adventuring company as the frenzied flurry of events that transpired during the first week of Katsumi’s stay quickly wound down into a sudden and abrupt lull in immediate crises. The announcement of the tourney went public the day after Ástríðr and Katsumi’s appointment with Rhiannon and Fèng, and with that announcement, the quest postings at the Guild dried up like a puddle in the desert, dominated by recruiting drives to gather teams for the tournament, leaving anyone who already had a close-knit or well-off team with little to do but wait for the lists to be open for registration.

Given this lull in rapprochement, and in between lessons from both Madam Tsuyu and Dame Rienna, the latter of which was swiftly ramping up—three days in, and she had gotten fifteen consecutive times, and the fourth day was the day when she had gotten twenty, so now they were working on having Katsumi replicate the feat, but now completely unarmed—Katsumi and Ástríðr had taken to actually following through on the sharing of common interests; having done music lessons the day before, today was for cooking, and more specifically the culmination of a great deal of work they had been doing for the past few days.

Katsumi considered teaching how to make the unagi she had served to help everyone break their fast and stave off the intake of coffea, which was imbibed in the morning like it was water, and thus save the udon they had managed to make from scratch for another day, but she thought better of it; the meals that could be made from marine animals that she knew from her previous life were numerous, and they very quickly became prohibitively complex for a novice with no talent for food such as Ástríðr. Not to mention, taking buckwheat and making them into udon was a touch time-consuming when attempting to also instruct someone who, by her own admission, had once managed to char water. 

It was late afternoon, so the soup would be ready by the time the doors opened, and given how much they were making, it seemed as though it would manage to last the night. The dashi had been made the previous day, and given the nearby orchards and forests, it hadn’t been especially difficult to find wild edible mushrooms approximate to the taste of shiitake or enokitake for an extra dash of home. She had just set out the last of the ingredients for the broth and udon when Ástríðr ascended from the cellar, a large covered pot in her arms. “The whatever-it-is did the thing where the fat’s all cold and solid.”

Katsumi nodded. “Good. Now, I’m going to need you to put that down, pick up a knife, and cut away the fat that should now be on top.  _ Just  _ the fat, and I would advise you to use something a bit more precise than a cleaver this time.”

“I think I can do that,” Ástríðr replied with a touch of bravado.

“And so Ástríðr is left with the titanic task of  _ not  _ making the kitchen look like an abattoir like she did the last five times she was left with meat prep,” Kyomi sighed, taking a small paring knife to a large, ripe orange, her price for helping with the mushroom-gathering, and popping a slice of the fruit into her mouth. “Sixth time’s the charm, I suppose.”

“Ya know, you’ve said some variation on that every time she’s done this,” Kagura remarked as her nimble hand reached around Katsumi to nick from the plate of umeboshi she had by her side for precisely that purpose. Early on, they’d found that Kagura had a nasty habit of nicking food as it was being prepared, which was unpleasant for all involved, as very few of the ingredients used in traditional Far Eastern cooking were especially palatable raw. “Nothing good’s gonna come from psychin’ her out like that. Plus, it’s sorta unoriginal. Low effort, really.”

“Ora?!” Kyomi exclaimed. “Calling me low-effort?! You wanna _ go,  _ kusottare?!”

Kagura considered for a moment as her jaw worked at the dried pickled plum she had just taken and popped into her mouth. “Nah. Not feelin’ it. Ya might as well take one o’ these, aho-nee. They’re really helpin’ me mellow out.”

Kyomi sighed from where she was perched on the countertop on the opposite side of the kitchen from Katsumi, and, setting down her orange, she slipped from it to the floor and walked over to Kagura, who was directly beside Katsumi. With an ill-tempered expression on her face, she snatched the proffered snack from the smirking Kagura’s raised hand, and popped it into her mouth, chewing it. Almost immediately, her face twisted up in disgust as she spat it out and did her best to spit the taste out. “Kimoi! How the  _ fuck _ do you  _ like  _ these things?!”

Kagura shrugged, and took another piece of the incredibly sour and briny fruit into her mouth. With a shit-eating grin, she swallowed and said, “I guess they remind me of you.”

Katsumi sighed, but couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face. To look at them, no one could possibly deny they were siblings. Which reminded her…

“Where’s Sonja been? I haven’t seen her in a  _ week. _ ”

Kagura shrugged. “Search me. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her either.”

“Probably still doing that training of hers,” Kyomi mused. 

“Who the fuck knows?” Ástríðr sighed. “Better question: who the fuck cares?”

Katsumi sighed as she moved to wave her lover away from the pot. “I’ll take over here. You don’t seem to be getting anything done over here, and we’re working on a bit of a time constraint. But I want you to explain to me why you guys seem to be at each other’s throats. I’m trying not to take it personally, but the fact that I’m so thoroughly out of the loop on this isn’t helping that effort.”

Ástríðr nodded with a huff as she backed away from the covered pewter. “It’s a bit of a long story. A long,  _ boring  _ story.”

“I sincerely doubt it’s anywhere near as boring as you’re making it out to be,” Katsumi said as she lifted the pot and carried it over to a stool in the far corner of the kitchen. She opened the pot and took a slim butcher’s knife to the first slab of meat floating in alcoholic broth. “Kagura and Kyomi here are something of a comedy duo, and my own experiences with sibling relationships were never so adversarial as the one you share with Sonja. There’s something there that’s causing that profound dissonance, and I’d rather air it than risk failure in the tourney from a lack of synergy.”

“Well, you know how Sonja took up that whole sword and shield schtick?”

“I’m familiar,” Katsumi replied. “She knows her way around it, but that’s more for general martial prowess than any real connection to it, I’ve noticed.”

“Yeah, well…when we were young, Sonja always wanted to be a knight, and she dubbed herself my ‘protector.’ I was sort of a morose kid,” Ástríðr explained. “I was moody and more than a little reckless, got into more than a few scrapes that sometimes left me the worse for wear. But she more or less defined herself around that, and when Taliesin came around to start seeing what we were made of, Sonja  _ committed _ to the training almost obsessively. But it wasn’t enough. In a short amount of time, I’d outpaced her, and suddenly I didn’t need a protector. Sonja took exception to that, because she’s a bratty, entitled little shitstain.

“When I got Eisentänzer on my coming of age, Sonja showed her true colours. She challenged me to a fight, and when I knocked her on her ass, she got up again. She kept going and going, and eventually I got it. She was angry because the world wasn’t the way she wanted it to be—she had built herself around being my defender, and now that she was undergoing this existential crisis because I  _ could  _ knock her on her ass so reliably, it was somehow  _ my  _ problem that she had lived her life with the assumption that I’d always be weaker than her. So, yeah.” Ástríðr shrugged. “I’m not dealing with that. I refuse. Categorically. If she can’t get her shit together, I refuse to let her make it my problem just because she’s existentially limp-dicked.”

“…I’m trying to think of something more eloquent than ‘uh,’ but…” Katsumi began even as her fingers moved through the motions of meal preparation that were down to muscle memory by this point. “I guess all I  _ can  _ say is that I hope Sonja eventually finds something beyond trying and failing to define herself around you.”

“Oh, she did,” Ástríðr explained. “She’s the prince’s concubine, now, and she’d probably be happier focusing on that than she would have been protecting me if I had needed protecting. But that  _ obviously  _ didn’t happen, because she’s still trying to one-up me, and it’s  _ still  _ not my problem. When she  _ makes  _ it my problem, like with what happened the day after the mithril mines, I step in to lay down the law, but I’m not about to _ choose  _ to get tangled up in her basic bitch bullshit. She wants to throw a one-woman pity-party extravaganza, that’s fine, but I’m shredding my invite on principle.”

“…Seems like I’ve chosen the perfect time to walk in on,” said Tandem as he entered the kitchen. “You kids gonna be alright with making food? I could pitch in if it’ll help.”

Katsumi shook her head. “Thank you, my lord, but we’ve done all the heavy lifting by this point. All that’s left is putting them together, which shouldn’t take much more than half an hour.”

“That’s all well and good, but don’t go calling me ‘my lord’ or anything like that, you hear?” Tandem replied. “Fucking hate being noble. But Marique wouldn’t let it rest. He always  _ did  _ like taking a pound of flesh right outta my hide for his own amusement. In that, Mercédès really does follow suit. Then again, all three of them resemble him, just in different ways.”

“I’m sorry, all three?”

“Marique and Rienna had three kids. Triplets, delivered at the same time,” Tandem explained with a sagacious nod. “Mercédès is one of them. The other two haven’t been seen in a long while. One of ‘em up and vanished one night, stolen right out of her bedroom on the eve of her sixth nameday. The other one went on a trip to find her missing sister, and she disappeared, too. Mercédès was the only one left to take the throne, which I guess is fortunate, because neither of the other two could have.”

“Why’s that?” Katsumi asked.

“Race,” Tandem said as though that explained everything.

“Race?” Katsumi parroted dumbly.

“What, you didn’t think House Lucerne was made up of  _ elves,  _ did ya?”

“I had assumed,” Katsumi confessed as she checked her progress. She was somewhere between one quarter and one third done with the lot.

“Yeah, well, that’s the thing about assuming things. Makes an ass out of you,” Tandem replied, walking over to the plate of umeboshi and popping one into his mouth straight away. “Props to ya, kid. This is some good shit.”

“Then…what race are they?” Katsumi asked.

“Ah. Sorry, kid,” Tandem mumbled as he chewed the fruit. “That question runs right up against the boundaries of ‘not my story to tell.’”

Katsumi nodded, turning her attention back to her task.

“What’re you down here for, Dad?” Ástríðr asked.

“What, I can’t come down here just to shoot the shit with the kids?” Tandem shot back.

“Yeah, pull the other one, why don’t you?” Ástríðr snorted.

“You got me there,” Tandem admitted, putting his hands up in a gesture of faux surrender. “Registration’ll be three days before the event, and while you all are already in the books, I thought I’d give you a few pieces of advice leading up to this. I mean, this is all of your first times in the tourney circuit. What kinda dad and or guardian would I be if I didn’t volunteer to show you young’uns the ropes?”

“Is there a rest stop between here and the point?” Katsumi sighed.

Tandem was quiet for a moment, shock clear in his eyes, crimson in the waning light of the noontime sun. “…You’ve been spending way too much time around Rienna.”

“More matter, less art,” Ástríðr snapped.

“Oh, oh! I’ve got one!” Kyomi called, jumping up and down with her hand raised. Then she cleared her throat, and spoke in a voice obviously meant to mimic an old man. “Therefore be silent, and keep your forked tongue behind your teeth!”

Kyomi gestured to pass the lead off to Kagura, who took up the torch readily. “I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a serving-man ‘til the lightning falls!”

Then the two vii siblings hooked their arms together, and bowed with a flourish, as though on a stage.

“You two are hilarious,” Tandem deadpanned. “To the point, then: The tournament promoters need names for each company to participate as a way of associating fighters to the audience. Have you all given any thought as to what you’ll want to use as far as that goes?”

Silence was his immediate response, the only sound being the working of cookware and the drawing of the knife through the pork belly.

Tandem sighed. “Look, you’ve got a while before the lists go up, so just give it some thought. That’s all I’m asking. Okay?”

A chorus of assents went through the kitchen.

* * *

Having never been one for imbibing alcohol, and doubly so for doing such in a crowded social space, Katsumi was unsure of precisely  _ why  _ she had agreed to join Kagura on a bar crawl. She was even more uncertain of why she had actually followed through on the commitment, and even now dreaded what Ástríðr’s reaction would be were she to return with the hard-earned knowledge that she could not hold her liquor. And yet, here she was, sitting in a tavern filled with ruffians and cutthroats, men considered too rowdy for mercenary work, but perfect for gangs in the city’s thriving underworld.

On the bright side, she was now growing more aware of the reality that the Rouge was far and away the largest part of Maelnaulde.

The game in which Kagura was engaged, ringed in by uproarious spectators, had a name, she was certain. The rules were simple: each player would slam down a tankard of a foul concoction they called ‘firestone rhum,’ which was rum fermented in this world’s substitute black powder—namely, a naturally blue crystal that turned red when enriched with magic called prismere, that was then shaved to create an explosive sand, seeing use in firearms and war machines, imaginably called firesand—down their throats as quickly as they could, and then each would pick up a knife. They would then place their off-hand, fingers splayed, upon the table, and stick that knife in between each of their fingers and back to the start as quickly as they could. The first to lose a finger lost the game, and the one who successfully executed the knife section the fastest got a number of points dependent on the time taken, with greater weight given to the scores later on in the game, given the increasing difficulty of the game. Kagura had boasted that she had played this very game a number of times, and given the fact that she still had all her fingers, Katsumi was left to assume that Kagura was undefeated.

Getting further and further into the game ramped up the tension to a fevered pitch, and every successful run, going the entire ladder up all five fingers and down, was met with an increasingly uproarious reception. Katsumi wondered at the point of the game until she saw money changing hands after successful runs. Gambling, then, and given the portion that went into a cauldron on a far table before a bet was noted down, there was some set aside for the winner, a prize pot that increased exponentially the further they got into the game.

As the frenzied jabbing taps of the latest round drew to a close, Katsumi took a sip of the drink she had been given and grimaced as the gathering crowd of rascals and ne’er-do-wells. Whatever creature possessed her, someone who had no acquaintance with alcohol, to choose what amounted to a spirit for the night, was probably laughing themselves under the table as she gently nursed the juniper brandy. She had taken down several rounds of it, as Kagura had bought the tavern free drinks almost immediately upon walking in, and she was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, yet inebriation was still beyond her reach. The burn was there, but she knew herself to still be fully in control of her faculties, oddly enough.

Apparently, there were others that were not so privy to her sobriety, and when one slid into the seat beside her, to which she had her back, she continued to sip, but noted the notable weight of the other’s presence.

“Haven’t seen  _ you  _ around here before.”

Katsumi suppressed the urge to sigh and roll her eyes.  _ Here we go.  _ “I would be worried if you had. This is, after all, my first time here.”

“Really? You know, it’s dangerous to go wandering the Rouge alone,” drawled the man, and indeed, man it was. The weight of his gaze on her back made her skin crawl. “People might get the wrong idea.”

“I agree, which is why I’m  _ not  _ alone,” Katsumi replied firmly.

“Oh? Who’s the lucky guy?” the man asked, probably believing his derision would slip her notice.

“Girl, actually,” Katsumi corrected. “I’m here with my friend Kagura, who is set to win the night at that knife game they’re playing.”

“Raptor’s Forfeit,” the man supplied. “I’m impressed. You must have faith in her.”

“Well, given that she seems to be doing fairly well, is by all accounts fairly experienced in this, and has all of her fingers remaining to boot, I daresay it’s less ‘faith’ and more ‘an accurate accounting of her abilities,’” Katsumi remarked. Kagura’s boisterous, gregarious tones rose from the general carousing, and though Katsumi could not discern the vii’s exact choice of words, it was fairly clear that she was having a great time. “Plus, she seems to enjoy this, for whatever reason.”

“What, isn’t it obvious? She’s chasing the  _ thrill. _ The  _ risk.  _ I wonder if a lady like you knows anything about that,” the man said, and his tones slipped around her torso like a slug. “Look at her. At any moment, she might lose. She’s drinking heavily and doing something that’d be difficult to do sober. She could maim herself here, and she’s putting that on the line. It’s the greatest high she’s ever had, I’ll wager.”

“Well, that’s certainly in keeping with the other things she tends to do,” Katsumi noted. “She’s daring, and sometimes reckless, is my friend over there.”

“Well, maybe you want to get some of that, hmm?” the man slithered. “Want to court that  _ risk,  _ to  _ let go,  _ and be  _ free  _ for a night. Risk, chance,  _ release _ —I’d be willing to teach you all about that, if you’d like.”

“I would not, thank you,” Katsumi replied primly.

She could feel the man balking behind her, but true to form, he didn’t take the hint. “Come on, now, beautiful. Bet you I can make you unravel like no other.”

“Now you see,  _ that’s  _ where you’re wrong,” she said, and the grin on her face as she turned to face the man who thought he was being seductive but was really just being sleazy was all teeth. “Because while Kagura  _ is  _ only my friend, I  _ am,  _ romantically, spoken for. Best of luck manipulating another more hapless woman to rut with you, though. It seems as though you’ll  _ definitely  _ need it.”

The man before her certainly did. His gaunt face was long and pock-marked, his eyes and cheeks sallow and dark, his pale, watery gaze lidded, and dark chestnut hair hung limply in greasy locks around his face. He was tall and lean, though, and had she any appreciation for ugly men, she could certainly call him unique with his overlong nose and lips like a deathly slash to separate chin and jaw from nostrils and philtrum. His fingers, long and bony and pale, looked as though they belonged to a first-rate cutpurse, though his drab, mangy, ragged garments, frayed and threadbare, spoke to profound poverty, or perhaps simple greed to the point where the hoarding of his ill-gotten gains overpowered the natural desire for comfort. Katsumi’s grin shifted into a smirk as she looked him up and down. “On second thought, you’ll probably need far more than luck. Good day.”

She stood and turned from him, but those fingers, like claws, latched onto her shoulder with a strangler’s grip. “Oi! We’re not done here, harlot!”

“You have until the count of four to remove your hand from my person. If by that point I have not been obeyed, you will never use that arm again,” Katsumi replied calmly.

“You need to learn to bluff better, puterelle! There’s not a guard in sight and no one who’s gonna stick their necks out for some no-name stuck-up…”

“Zero.”

As with her training with Rienna, Katsumi drove her elbow into the man’s kidney with the force of a warhammer. Air and spittle sprayed forth from his piscine lips, even as her arm grabbed his. She ducked under his limb and flowed around him as he recovered, wrenching his arm back and slamming her heel into the back of his knees. When he was on his knees, she placed her foot onto his back. “Now that you’re on your knees, I want you to  _ beg. Beg  _ me for mercy.  _ Beg  _ me for forgiveness. Or you can say goodbye to your limb, and say hello to a role in a cautionary story centuries in the future. Grovelling, or maiming. Your choice.”

In listening for the man’s response, she became aware of the dead silence that had settled over the tavern.

“You’re gonna get it now, bitch!” the man snarled.

Katsumi sighed, and followed through, wrenching his arm in such a way that it would never fully heal through mundane means. The harsh, wet snap was accompanied by the high-pitched whining whimper of pain that came from him. “Cursing at me wasn’t one of the options, I’m afraid. Sorry. Better luck next time.”

Then she stomped on his head, and the wet splitting sound was akin to crushing an underripe melon. As she stepped over his body, facing the full patronage of the tavern who now glared at her murderously, she cracked her knuckles with her fists, and rolled her neck. She knew from somewhere that showing a complete lack of fear was likely to inspire it, if played correctly. “Now then. Looks like you boys are spoiling for a fight. As it happens, so am I. The only question that remains is who to maim first. Are there, perchance,  _ any volunteers? _ ”

One man, burly, bald, scarred and missing an eye despite his obvious brawny youth, took a glass cask and crashed it down upon the bar, making a makeshift weapon.

She cocked an eyebrow.

“Get ‘er!”

Katsumi watched the surging tide of filth and villains barrel towards her with a smirk.  _ Now we’re talking. _

* * *

“ _ Suge! _ I haven’t had that much fun in  _ forever! _ ” Kagura exclaimed as she stretched her arms above her head, the waxing gibbous illuminating their path as they walked back to the Drunken Whore a little over an hour later. “You’ve  _ gotta  _ come drinking with me more often, Katsu-chan! Do you  _ know  _ how rare it is for me to be part of an honest-to-gods  _ bar fight?! _ ”

“I’m glad you had fun,” Katsumi replied sourly. “Though I still wonder at why you dragged me out here to begin with.”

“Well,  _ that  _ much is easy,” Kagura replied. “Kyomi and I decided that since we knew you as yourself for so short a time before you became Ástríðr’s aijin, we’d each take the time to get to know you outside of your relationship with our friend. This was just my way of getting you out alone so that we can get acquainted, be friends, all that good nakama shit. Ya know?”

“Hmph,” Katsumi replied noncommittally. “And what’s your assessment, then?”

“ _ Assessment?  _ Fuck, if I wanted to get tested, I’d take the first ship to Emberlet!” Kagura exclaimed, shaking her head. “Nah, this wasn’t anything like that. We just thought we could all be friends. Now, if you’re asking what I  _ think  _ of you, well, that’s a different question entirely. And what I think of ya is, you’re not half-bad. Could use some work in the whole letting your hair down department, sure, but overall? You’re alright, Katsu-chan.”

“Really?” asked Katsumi, taken more than a little off-guard.

“C’mon, not  _ all  _ of us have as big a post up our asses as Sonja,” Kagura complained. “I like ya, Kyomi’s Kyomi, but she’s decided she’s open to likin’ ya, too… So stop actin’ so surprised that we don’t wanna kill ya. Well, that’s a lie—I  _ do  _ wanna kill ya, but for a completely separate reason, ya feel me?”

“…After a fashion, I suppose,” Katsumi replied at length.

“Hm,” Kagura grunted in response.

They walked in silence for a little ways longer, and Kagura broke it next. “Say, remember that thing we did the other day? Your first full day here, where we fought.”

“…To an extent.”

“Mm. Well, besides being  _ super fuckin’ cool  _ when you cleaned our clocks like that, I remember there was this feeling comin’ off ya in waves,” the vii explained. “Hadn’t felt anything quite like it before, really, but ever since ya went off and did somethin’ with the prince… I haven’t said anything about it, but that feeling I got wen ya went all berserk, I’ve been feelin’ it comin’ off ya day and night ever since.”

“What’s your point?” Katsumi asked, glancing at the battle-hungry usagimimi out of the corner of her eye with no small amount of suspicion.

“Well, you’ve obviously gotten a lot stronger since then,” she elaborated. “But more than that, it’s like there’s… _ more _ of ya, ya know? Like the bud of a flower doin’ the whole bloomin’ thing. Ach. I’m no good with words, I know, but am I makin’ sense? Like, at all?”

“In a way,” Katsumi replied. She took up her arm, and closed her hand in a fist as she watched the pale scar shift along the skin of her flexor. “There was this… _ thing  _ inside of me when you nearly killed me that day. Its presence was pervasive, to say the least, and for a while, I genuinely thought it was going to stay with me, as a reality of my life here. And then, the day that the prince and I met, we… _ exchanged  _ something. The Beast within me recoiled, and then surged, as though what was given to me was seen as a threat that caused it to grow. It was this angry, winged black serpent, with thoughts of its own after a fashion, and eyes like fire; but now I feel it as I do my own skin. Its scales are mine, and I have neither heard its voice nor felt its presence since, no more than I feel the presence of my own limbs.”

“S ō ka…” Kagura replied, her expression turning pensive. 

“S ō ne,” Katsumi confirmed in turn. Then she furrowed her brow, suspicious. “What are you thinking of?”

“Oh, not so much,” Kagura waved off. “Just a theory of mine. I mean, if this thing is fading into you, then you shouldn’t only be able to pull it forth when your life is in danger, right? I mean, last time, you were almost unconscious. But now I wonder if you can’t just use it whenever you need a boost.”

Katsumi snorted. “That’s ridicul —”

Then her eyes went wide. She remembered the feeling from the day she had sparred with Ástríðr, the feeling of the scales creeping up her limbs, strong enough to turn aside the blows of a greataxe without even the slightest feeling of impact. She remembered the heat racing in her veins, the feeling of fangs against her gums, the sensation of claws digging into the turf.

She remembered  _ power. _

“So you’ve seen it, then?” Kagura remarked. “You pulled upon its well of power, but not fully. You’re hesitant. Could it be that you’re  _ scared  _ of it?”

“I don’t know how much control I would have were I to go all the way into it,” Katsumi explained. “It’s dangerous. Of course I’m… _ disinclined  _ to go further with it.”

“Well, that won’t do,” Kagura decided matter-of-factly, punching her palm and turning to face her. “You can only pull so many punches before you forget how to follow through, and as your friend, I can’t let you get in the way of being your best self like that.”

Katsumi took a step back. “Why do I feel like whatever you’re about to do is going to be a  _ staggeringly  _ bad idea?”

“I dunno,” Kagura said with a shrug. “Maybe because that’s completely in character for me? And it’s more surprising that you’re surprised by it by this point?”

“You…have a point there.”

“Of course I do. I always have a point,” Kagura scoffed. “Now, why don’t we get right down to it, hmm?”

“…What is ‘it’?”

Kagura smirked, and took a slow, deliberate breath in. The air hummed with danger, almost alight with sparks, like being near a lightning rod in the last moments before it’s struck, and with further breaths, that energy in the area soared. And was that Katsumi’s imagination, or was Kagura  _ glowing— _

“ _ Meteoric Overdrive! _ ”

The first hit forced the air from Katsumi’s lungs as she crumpled like a rag doll around Kagura’s blow, and then the impact took over and sent her flying; that same moment, a brilliant explosion of golden light slammed into reality, searing her eyes and leaving spots, as though she had just gazed directly into the desert sun. 

The next thing she felt, besides the profound weightlessness of sailing through the air on the cusp of a brutal impact, was her landing. The area of the Rouge they had been walking through was a semi-abandoned shantytown, and she could discern multiple distinct materials, from rusted scrap to green wood to pieces of assorted garbage and metal, as she crashed into the hastily-assembled lean-tos, hitting the ground in a heap.  
She lifted herself up onto her elbows, coughing and wheezing to get air back into her lungs, even as Kagura stayed precisely where she was. “Come on, then! Get up! I can’t hold this form for very long yet, so we’re working on a pretty strict timer! If you don’t come to me, I’m gonna have to come to _you!_ And that’d be…that’d be pretty bad.” 

Katsumi looked up, shielding her eyes, but it barely helped; Kagura was enveloped in seething golden light, rising off of her in unrelenting refulgent pulses. Her hair and ears were a colour more vibrant an aurum than spun gold, her argent eyes were a fiery scarlet tone, and her grin promised joyful murder, or failing that, gregarious and gratuitous violence. She staggered to her feet, wishing she had brought her satchel with her, but as she gained purchase on the ground as she rose, what then did she find but the seed, so subtly furtive, yet so incredibly  _ vital… _

How could she have stood to be parted from something so utterly indispensable…?

She needed her hands free, and so she slipped it into a set of bandages wrapped securely around her upper arm—she had gotten good, but accidents still occurred when working with and fending off live steel bare-handed—flush against her bare skin, knowing that the binding would at least keep it safe while she worked. That done, she secured her footing, and slipped into the hand-to-hand stance she learned to use during her morning practise; then, she dug for that core of darkness that slumbered within her, the act of falling into it only to then seize it by the throat from within having grown much easier since she gained the mark.

_ I need it… _

_ I need the power of the Beast. _

Bringing forth a recollection of what it was like to fight Ástríðr, she tried to find that place again, that place fathoms beyond counting beneath the surface of the opaque black bile that shone with crimson waves in the light, when her body had begun to change.

“ _ Time’s up! _ ” called Kagura, and Katsumi’s sharp intake of breath was the only reaction she could give as the empowered vii was suddenly in her face, winding up to strike her. Both hands caught the incoming fist that shot forth with all the speed and force of an arquebus shot, but the impact wrenched both her shoulders and pushed her back quite a ways.

_ Blocking another blow like that will take my arms right out of their sockets,  _ she thought in the infinitesimal moments before the next punch.  _ I need to dig deeper…! _

A low, bestial growl built at the hollow of her throat, satisfaction mixing with the feeling of her scales encroaching on her flesh, her teeth growing sharp and elongated as her nails lengthened into black claws or talons. Her horns engorged and grew a bit more elaborate, and the excruciating racing of fire in her veins was a welcome distraction from the nearly-wrenched shoulders. Behind her eyes was a sudden feeling of relief, as though she had been studying by candle-light and did not notice the strain on her vision until she allowed the black curtain of night to grant her repose—which was odd, because her sight was sharper now than it had been the last time she had dug this deeply into the well of pain and hate and  _ rage  _ that sat in her core. Her jaw dropped in an exhale, and now instead of mist, it was clear that it was truly  _ steam  _ that left her open mouth, while the growl tore itself free from her throat and manifested in a staccato clicking, the sound of a predator as clear as the moon above.

“Now  _ that’s  _ more like it, Katsu-chan… Come at me! Give it everything you’ve got!”

“Gladly,” she replied, the slight, somewhat sinister reverberating double-tone of her voice subtle enough that she dismissed it as merely auditory distortion that she heard due to her altered state.

The darkness swelled beneath her feet, dancing almost eagerly. The cold stone underneath that darkness cracked with force as she launched herself forward, meeting Kagura’s grinning face with a diving punch of her own.

Or at least, that was the plan.

Kagura tilted to the side at the last possible moment, and the hit sailed afield of Katsumi’s target, leaving her extended and exposed.

The elbow drop that followed onto her spine was strong enough to shatter bone, though her scales took the brunt of the force and held; even so, she was sent face-first into the ground, a desperate handspring allowing her to recover, but only just.

“You’re too slow, Katsu-chan~!” Kagura called after her. “Come on! You should know by now that a half-assed attack won’t reach me! I wouldn’t have been able to dodge that if you were  _ really  _ giving it your all!”

Katsumi spat out a mouthful of foul-tasting blood, ignoring the harsh, bubbling sizzle as it hit the stone and started steaming with an almost corrosive hiss. She drew her off-hand across her jaw, wiping the remainder off and dashing it away. “You’ve got that much right.”

With that, she planted her feet again, digging  _ deeper— _

And then nothing.

It wasn’t like she was at the bottom; far from it—she could feel the boundless abyss swirling just beneath where she was, where she had stopped and was unable to draw further. But she  _ couldn’t go deeper. _ It was like a floor, transparent and tenebrous, but undeniably there, and try as she might, focusing every mote of her will on digging  _ just that much further… _

…Nothing.

Kagura’s hand landed on her shoulder, and she looked up, the darkness slipping from her grasp like so much sand strained through the sudden opening of a sieve. The golden light snapped away from her friend as though tearing itself free of her skin, her eyes, hair, and ears returning to their normal hue almost immediately, as her posture sagged to a degree that was, for Kagura, quite dramatic. “It’s alright. I didn’t really expect ya to get it on your first try. Just needed to give ya a push, ya know? Else you’d never’ve tried, and what a cryin’ shame that’d be, eh?”

“Are you okay?”

“Oh, sure. Yuriya-sensei’s been talkin’ about getting me to use my aura if I wanna go any further, and that’s a bitch an’ a half. This ‘manipulation’ shit, it’s hell on your lungs and steals the life right outta your limbs when ya run outta energy to keep it goin’, but it’s a helluva boost in the moment,” Kagura explained. “She called it the ‘Ripple Trance,’ but I dunno what the fuck that’s supposed to mean.”

“Well, if it has to do with your lungs, maybe it’s your breathing that’s wrong,” Katsumi mused as she moved into a position more able to support Kagura’s weight for what she somehow knew was about to happen.

“Mebbe,” Kagura mumbled in acknowledgement before letting loose quite the mighty and prodigious yawn. “Ach, that’ll be for the mornin’. I’m beat. Let’s just go home…”

On cue, Kagura’s posture sagged again, and thankfully Katsumi was braced well enough to adjust to the sudden sharp increase in weight with barely a flinch. “Right then, big girl. We’re gonna get you home and get you in bed so you can nurse that hangover in the morning, okay?”

“Sounds good…” Kagura murmured. She lifted her arm with some effort, and pointed feebly in the complete wrong direction. “Onward…”

Katsumi gently nudged Kagura’s hand into the correct direction with some application of her horns as prods. “Wrong way.”

“Ugh, fuck, man, whatever! Maps are for  _ numpties  _ anyway…”

* * *

They had been told to expect results in twelve days. They got them in ten.

Eleven days after the initial appointment, Katsumi was once more within the warm walls of the Blackwood Townhouse, this time in a windowless room covered in large, lavish, elaborately decorated mirrors, clearly well-lit despite the noted and stark lack of any visible light sources. She stood upon a steep dais, initially garbed in a long-sleeved aketon and hose. Today was the day for her new armour’s final fitting, and Fèng was squiring for her while Rhiannon leaned against the nearest mirror and eyed her critically. 

In any other set of circumstances and in any other company, Katsumi would have at least thought to ask why the blacksmith was only garbed in an unsecured dressing gown, sheer silk more draped around her bare shoulders than truly worn and hanging open in the front, thus giving a full view of Rhiannon’s nudity; but there was neither sexuality nor shame in her stance, nor even really awareness that some might consider her overt nudity sexual, and so Katsumi saw fit to not bring any attention to her peculiarities with purposeless scrutiny. Fèng worked from bottom to top, starting with her feet, probably because of how the armour was designed to fit together, and as she was quietly about her task, Katsumi was as willing as Rhiannon seemed to just silently and amiably share the space.

“I’ll be honest. I’d expected you to ask about why Fèng didn’t ask Ástríðr to come with you,” Rhiannon remarked idly.

“It’s generally accepted that it’s usually ill-mannered to pose a question when you are already aware of the answer, and it seemed unwise of me to antagonise the woman tasked with forging equipment that might wind up the difference between whether I win or die,” Katsumi explained. “When last we spoke, you said that you already knew Ástríðr’s specifications, and—”

“Did I?” Rhiannon interrupted inquisitively. “Well, that’s certainly true, and it sounds like something I would point out besides…”

“… _ And, _ ” Katsumi reminded, her voice gentle, but firm. “Given the obvious rapport you two share, I daresay the information you have concerning her armour is of sufficient specificity to necessitate the forgoing of a fitting in the interest of time and other projects. In the interest of both intellectual honesty and full disclosure, it was academically possible that you just weren’t finished with filling her order,  _ but  _ certain relevant intangibles both confound and negate that particular probability.”

“I would probably have used less bookish words if I was asked to explain it myself, but that’s about the size of the situation,” Rhiannon confirmed with an affirming bob of her head. “I sent the missive for my sister’s finished armour to be delivered when I finished it just yesterday, actually, so it should be in her possession if not now, then by the time we’re done here. Any adjustments that might need to be made to yours should be minor, so if there  _ are  _ in fact a few kinks to work out, I’ll go back, do ‘em, and we’ll fit again to make sure it works. Makes more sense than sending you all the way back, only to call you up minutes later, that’s for certain.”

“How eminently practical,” Katsumi replied, only half-indulgent.

Rhiannon shrugged. “It is what it is. Like it or not, mismeasurement is part of the process. It’s like what Tandem always told me: the unsung hero of any creative work is the failed first attempt. Even if I’ve gotten pretty good at eyeballing, I’m not  _ completely  _ infallible.”

“Only mostly,” Katsumi supplied with a wry twist to her lips.

“ _ Yes!  _ See? You get it!”

“Damn it, they’re multiplying,” Fèng grumbled—with her tongue thoroughly in her cheek, if Katsumi was correct about what she heard in the woman’s voice. “Thank you for holding still. Almost done with the legs. Next we’ll move onto the torso.”

“You know, plate armour isn’t nearly as constrictive as those who haven’t worn it or only ever joust in it would have you believe,” Rhiannon began. “Having said that, I designed this with a special emphasis on low weight and high mobility. For weight, the armour is unadorned, which is fortunate—the one thing Ástríðr and Sonja share as people is a sheer ability to  _ perform.  _ Could probably go professional if either of them were so inclined. They aren’t, unfortunately, no matter how many times I beg. So much for that. Where was I?”

“You were talking about the lack of adornment as it relates to weight,” Katsumi supplied.

“Oh, yes! Thank you. Lost my cabbage cart for a moment there,” Rhiannon said with a light laugh. “Anyways. It’s unexpectedly fortunate because with what Ástríðr wanted and the amount of detail required to truly bring the motif to life, if I had to do something similarly complex for  _ you,  _ someone I barely know, I think my brain’d fry from all the possibilities.

“For mobility, I went with a focus on articulation, hence greaves and sabatons under poleyns instead of the full lower leg case under poleyns that a lot of knightly folk like to order from lesser smiths. I put a little extra oomph in there to get them to allow you to move as though fully unclothed without sacrificing any extra protection. Techniques are proprietary, I’m afraid, but the bonus is that with my methods, the need to spend hours riveting little rings together was totally nixed. So that’s a cause for celebration—forging mail is  _ mind-numbing.  _ Plus, finding a way to make a sectioned cuirass without the safety net of those irritating,  _ boring _ little rings was a great little challenge.”

As Rhiannon spoke, Fèng attached and secured the cuirass to Katsumi’s chest. There were no straps or latches, yet somehow, the segmented chest armour secured around her all the same. As her hands moved to fix a gorget about Katsumi’s throat, Fèng said, “The aketon is proprietary, too. Its design means that we’re securing the armour to it as much as we are to the other plates in and of themselves. There aren’t really special protections to keep it from being imitated—Rhiannon believes the level of quality the design demands to be beyond the level produced by the type of smith who would attempt to replicate it for their own gain, and galling as it is to agree with her in a business arena, I’ve since been convinced that she’s correct. Now I’m going to need you to lift your arms. The rerebraces go on first, then the vambrace, then the gauntlet. The couters and spaulders will go on next, followed immediately by the gardbrace, at which point, we’ll be—”

The fitting room’s heavy wooden double doors burst open, the unknown yet oddly familiar woman beyond showing no signs of having lifted so much as a finger to make them move in such a way. Though the memory that presumably made her so familiar was further beyond Katsumi’s grasp than most any other recollection to date, she noticed first the way the woman’s chestnut hair, penned up in a high tail secured with a headpiece that struck her as Sinitic in origin, so thoroughly resembled the streaming, freely-flowing horsehair plume of a legendary warrior’s helm. 

The woman’s skin was a dark olive, though not so dark as to be another named shade, and her face was well-defined, with strong features and a commanding air that did not demand obedience, but simply—and correctly—assumed it. Her deliberately windswept bangs hung over her forehead, softening her authoritative eyebrows and alleviating some of the shallower curves and harsher angles of her countenance, while eyes of a hue with blued steel shifted from one point of the chamber to the next.

She was tall, not quite so physically imposing as Ástríðr, but still perhaps fifteen to thirty centimetres taller than Katsumi, with a martial, but not Amazonian, build; the stiff collar of her finely-crafted open black coat, its pronounced lapels adorned with swirling and twining argent vines and twin rows of auric buttons, rose to just below her earlobes, and its hem fell to just above her ankles. Well-fitting black breeches and riding boots covered her legs, and underneath the coat itself was a waistcoat, into which was tucked a voluminous indigo scarf, thin but sturdy, that was wrapped around her neck and formed a sort of makeshift cravat while sporting a diamond-shaped silver brooch that framed a stone of purest solid black.

“Sister, I beg you to reconsider!” Taliesin cried, running in after her and looking, to Katsumi’s eyes at least, uncharacteristically harried, his decorum clearly thoroughly shattered.

The woman, apparently Taliesin’s sister, crossed the threshold in a few firm strides, and stopped an appreciable distance from Katsumi, flicking the implement she carried—her hands were bare, she noticed, in direct contrast to her brother’s—to the ground, and thus revealing a cane topped with a silver effigy of a raven.

Then those eyes, possessing not only steel’s hue, but also its unrelenting strength, locked with Katsumi’s, and the unusually intense scrutiny with which she was favouring the woman at the behest of her instincts fell away in the face of what she found there.

War. She saw war, in all its boundless horror and unspeakable savagery. War, in all its alien chaos and eldritch beauty. She gazed into the dark and vicious heart of eternal, unending war, and therein witnessed bloodshed beyond human reckoning. She saw desolation, fear, and merciless slaughter. She had never experienced synesthesia, where one would process a stimulus with a different sense than was intended, but she was almost certain that this was what it was like to  _ see _ music.

There was violence. Murder. Conflict in its most grisly, unbound state. Lands rendered barren, fields set aflame ahead of a siege, waters turned to poison as they choked on the bloated, decaying bodies of the dead as well as those who weren’t quite there yet, but were about to be. She watched as a conspiracy of ravens descended onto a mound formed of bodies stacked high, and was struck by how, as the carrion began to peck and tear at the corpses, they seemed to form a crown, a stone circle to mark the barrow of some great king or hero.

She felt something within her lurch, and like when she fought Sonja, a calm settled over her mind and body as she returned the gaze in kind. She did not need to dig for the darkness; the darkness rose within her, like floodwaters as it surged past its banks. She remembered Rienna’s words to her upon the start of her training, and for perhaps the first time, there was a sense of recognition in the idea, a validation, a sense of belonging.

War. Senseless, random, purposeless, indiscriminate,  _ chaotic.  _

Life, but through a different lens—Life that bloomed and blossomed and  _ burned  _ only in the cloying shadow of unrelenting Death. 

No malice.

No hatred.

No weak, infantile justifications.

Bloodshed, horror, murder, brutality,  _ savagery _ —War, for War’s own sake, and no other.

Someone cleared their throat, and the sound snapped her back to herself. She was still staring into the face of the woman as she nodded away, so, seeing this, Katsumi looked around, and found that all three of the room’s other occupants were prone. Conscious, to be certain, but pressed flat to the ground as though pinned beneath a great, unconquerable weight all the same.

Katsumi turned back to the woman, as the other’s lips, full but not overly so, quirked up into a pleased, approving smirk. 

“You have such pretty eyes, even now…” she began, and though her voice was powerful and her diction immaculate, there was  _ something  _ about it, some intangible quality, like the gently throbbing edges of the gaping hole where a precious memory once rested, and now was no more. Then she closed her eyes, and chuckled. “Indeed, they’re every bit as remarkable as ever.”

“What…the  _ fuck… _ was that?” Fèng, sounding none too pleased and somewhat battered to boot.

“It seems you were worried for nothing, dear brother,” the dark-skinned and oddly dressed woman announced. “This one need not die by my hand.”

“I suppose that’s pleasant news,” Taliesin gasped at length as he became the first to recover enough to stand and have his legs support him, even if only just. “Am I to understand that congratulations are in order?” 

The smirk broadened to a rakish, cunning grin with a flash of white, thankfully mostly square, teeth as the woman extended a hand to Katsumi. “As I’m certain you’ve already guessed, Myfanwy Blackwood, at your service. Charmed, I’m sure.”

* * *

Day Three after her first encounter with Myfanwy Blackwood was when Katsumi was beginning to lose hope that this was going to resolve itself.

Shortly after introducing herself, the woman grabbed Taliesin’s arm and gracefully dragged him out of the room, where, after a few minutes of recovery, the fitting continued from where they had left off, though both Rhiannon and Fèng were understandably quite a bit more reticent and terse in the immediate wake of what had just transpired. They moved through it quickly, and barring a few instances where Rhiannon’s sharp gaze caught onto something that Katsumi thought was perfect but was in fact not up to her exacting standards, leading to a couple of short minutes of her taking the piece and going to the forge to work out the issue each time, culminating in the appointment running not even twenty minutes later than expected, it proceeded without further unforeseen complications.

She did not know, looking back, whether the first fit had happened before or after the odd woman, engaged in rapid yet quiet conversation with her brother, caught sight of her as she moved to leave the townhouse. Myfanwy’s blued steel gaze met her violet stare, and she was overcome with a sudden jolt of vertigo that stole the strength from her body, sending her careening into the wall with a dull thud—both of these things occurred within the bounds of the haze that engulfed her mind in a moment, and in that moment’s passing, so too did the haze and the dizzying weakness. She  _ did  _ remember gazing into the woman’s face when she came free of the fit, her scrutiny unrelenting as her mouth twisted into a small, mirthless smirk. And she remembered the cryptic statement that followed.

“Time grows short. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the coming days, I’d imagine. Sooner than you think, at any rate.”

Irritation was Katsumi’s emotional response, irritation that she was exposed to yet  _ another  _ person who seemed to know far more about her and what was going to happen to her than she did, and the worrying trend that was beginning to arise from the apparent ubiquity of the knowledge of the nature of her existence—knowledge to which she was, distressingly, not privy. Yet when her eyes focused once more, the woman was gone, and a few errant leaves, oddly enough, warm with Autumn’s grasp, were left drifting in the place she had stood.

That was the first such fit in the following days, certainly, but it was by no means the last.

There was no way to prepare for it, and neither rhyme nor reason could be applied to the repeated recurrence of the attacks. One moment, she would be fine and hale as ever, and the next moment she would be on the ground, immobile with her limbs robbed of the strength to move of their own accord. They would pass, certainly, but the danger they posed was immediately apparent, and one such attack occurring mid-practise with Dame Rienna was all it took for that danger to become immediately apparent to everyone around her, as well.

That was the morning of Day One. Dame Rienna immediately cancelled their sessions until such time as this issue resolved itself, of course—the extremity of her methods aside, she was eminently responsible, and the results they produced effectively spoke for themselves to boot—but as Day One wore on, and then Day Two, followed by the morning of Day Three, with the only change being that the random frequency of these fits was becoming steadily higher, the variable intervals between them shortening markedly, Katsumi began to genuinely consider the situation truly untenable, and also interminable barring external intervention.

Well, no, that was a lie. While it was certainly the most significant change, it was by no means the only one. With it came an increasing sense of lethargy, and each fit became steadily more painful, heralded with a compounding sensation akin to being electrocuted. By Day Three, it had begun to resemble a fugue state, this persistent haze of fatigue that bordered on torpor, punctuated by instants when she felt a jolt as though struck directly by lightning.

Of course, this was overlaid with a profound, conflicting sense of delirium that made her essentially a prisoner in her own failing, treacherous body, denying her the ability to sleep or rest or ever really feel refreshed or restored, and so to combat this, during the early morning hours, when the sky was grey and the world awash in pale, dreary hues, she was out in the yard where she and Ástríðr had had their bout, the space Yuriya and Kagura used for training, with Deatheater in her grip as she started moving, exercising with the purpose of brute forcing her way out of this febrile state that so vexed her, hampering her efforts.

Strenuous motion seemed to provoke it, to make the fits not only worse but also more frequent, she found as she went through this process. Several of the fits that happened caused her to grit her teeth as her knees shook, but that was before her refusal to relent caused fits that ripped the keening wails of pain from her involuntarily, despite her best efforts to suppress them.

Each one sapped more vitality from her body than the last, but, harried and pale, she adjusted her grip on Deatheater and kept moving, practising, replicating the attack patterns she adopted in the course of training with Dame Rienna, who, after the initial success of her first trial, revealed that she had been restraining herself, and now could never be beaten with the same strategy twice.

Each one sapped her control, as well, and after each successive fit, a little more of her decorum and composure flaked off than the last, bringing her mood from slight irritation to a simmer in record time, rapidly approaching the boiling point.

It was after one failed swing in particular, her arm faltering and skewing the angle, thus sending her stumbling with her own momentum going in a direction distinct from the direction she had braced herself towards, that her vexation bubbled over. Without thinking and on impulse, she dug into that familiar dark place that brought her power, letting the black bile surge through her, only instead of suffusing her with vitality, celerity, alacrity, and strength…

“GAH!”

It was the worst one yet, like live wires snaking their way under her skin, like multiple bolts striking her at once because the gods decided they wanted to display their disdain for her in particular and opened the heavens to demonstrate their displeasure in no uncertain terms. She felt her skin begin to smoke, sensed the charnel scent of singed flesh enter her nostrils, and plunged Deatheater into the ground, narrowly avoiding collapse by leaning onto the sword like a crutch, as she caught her breath. Moments later, one several orders of magnitude worse surged through her and caused her back to arch near to the point of snapping like an overdrawn bow, and she could not tell if she was making a sound as the roaring of pain blocked out all other senses. Her body fell in a heap, and no amount of leaning would keep her upright.

This didn’t stop her from trying to reach out to the ground to push herself back up, despite the aftereffects coursing through her body; what  _ did  _ stop her was an admonition. “Oh, for the love of  _ fuck,  _ would you just  _ stop  _ already?!”

With a great, herculean effort, Katsumi tried to turn her head. “K…Kyomi?”

“No, I’m the milkman.  _ Yes,  _ you idiot!” Kyomi snapped as she rubbed at her temples, her eyes dull and unfocused and her hair frazzled. “For fuck’s sake, woman, can you not go _ five bleeding seconds  _ without attracting or provoking a crisis of  _ some  _ variety?!” 

“What are you…?”

“ _ And she’s still talking! _ ” Kyomi cried.

Katsumi remained silent after that.

Kyomi sighed. “Sorry, sorry. Just…stay where you are, and for the love of friendship, fire, and good booze everywhere,  _ don’t. Move.  _ I’m wigged out and fried, and in no mood to sit back and watch you make my job of coming over there and helping you any more difficult than it absolutely needs to be. That means no moving your limbs, no attempts at straining yourself,  _ no talking.  _ I can’t guarantee I won’t freak out at you again if I see you  _ blinking too hard.  _ Just stay over there so we can sort this out before you do any permanent damage to yourself. I’m just going to assume you understand because asking you to nod or blink twice runs right in the face of everything I just said.”

The soft crunch of depressed green informed Katsumi of her friend’s approach, but even if it hadn’t, she couldn’t have missed the almost intangible feeling of her as she knelt on the ground behind her back. Cracking her knuckles, Kyomi muttered what sounded like profanities under her breath. “Let’s see how bad you’ve fucked yourself over here, shall we?”

A white-hot poker impaled her in the left shoulder, thorns of fulminating fire fractalling through her from that point and radiating outwards. When it abated a moment later, she was just this side of conscious.

“Now, tell me, class, what was Katsumi’s first mistake?”

An involuntary groan emerged from Katsumi’s diaphragm.

“ _ Very good, _ children,” Kyomi hissed waspishly. “She tried to get her destabilised aura back to working order with brute force. Hold please.”

Kyomi jabbed her thumb into Katsumi’s shoulder, and the snapping of bones made Katsumi concerned, but still unable to move. Then a sharp jolt ran through her a fraction of a moment later, this one far from unpleasant, followed immediately with a sense of relief akin to the popping of a stiff joint. Strength pulsed through her, and suddenly she felt…better than ever, really—renewed, though she would not go so far as to say reborn.

Kyomi stood with a groan and shook her hand out. “Ah, fuck me, that’s gonna smart. It can’t be helped. So…uh…yeah… Go ahead and try it out, now that  _ one of your most curatorial nodes  _ isn’t blocked off anymore, why don’t you.”

Katsumi did as she was bidden, getting to her feet cautiously and retrieving Deatheater from its post. She gave the sword a few experimental swings, conjuring a recollection of the gambit Rienna was now teaching her how to defeat through doing—the more complex tactics she used sometimes confounded her, though she had gotten much faster at figuring them out, to the point where she only had that particular one fresh in her mind because it was the very last one she had been shown before the fit—and, finding that she was much faster and sharper, in reflex, technique, power, and even clarity of thought than she had been even going into the armour fitting, she nodded in satisfaction.

“If you’re curious about what I did, you had a node in your left shoulder that was all sorts of fucked. A large degree of energy was pooled there, and a single node isn’t supposed to handle that kind of strain. So I drove an about average amount of my aura into it, kinda bursting the bubble and letting the energy flow out again,” Kyomi explained, cradling her hand in her other hand. “This normally doesn’t hurt this much,  _ fuck. _ ”

“…Nodes?” Katsumi asked, stopping mid-swing.

“Right, I forgot, you have less magical education than the average infant,” Kyomi muttered. “Nodes are…a system of the body, I guess, though not entirely physical. Magical energy, whether mana or od, travels through the body in certain channels, not unlike blood or neural impulses, and like those systems, those channels link up regularly. These clusters are called ‘nodes,’ and there aren’t names for individual ones because there are, like, a few million of ‘em. So I  _ guess _ in that way they’re like nerves, only they serve a purpose like the vascular? Whatever. It’s  _ literally  _ academic.”

“Mana? Od?”

“…Okay. So. It’s generally accepted that mana, or I guess quintessence, if you wanna be a narc about it, is magical energy pulled from an external source. That can be from the world around you, or from a thing that those born to magic all have, which are Gates. Od, in contrast, is magical energy pulled from an internal source. In its native, very dead, language, I’m told ‘od’ was ‘light of the soul,’ or some shit like that,” Kyomi sighed. “From od, we get aura. Aura is what happens when we  _ use  _ od, because at this level, observing a thing changes its nature. Those are the two types of magical energy, but they’re better understood less as two distinct domains and never the twain shall meet, and more like one of those kinda illustrative diagrams with the two overlapping circles. You know what I’m talking about?”

“With regards to the diagram? Yes,” Katsumi replied.

“We call it a Ventus diagram here, I just didn’t know if I used that name that you’d recognise it,” Kyomi explained. “Now, next question? I mean, unless you’ve got a chalkboard, chalk, a pair of glasses for me, and several hours for me to just dump loads of info onto you that you’re not going to be able to absorb because you’re essentially being bombarded at that point.”

“What happened?” asked Katsumi.

“A while back, you had a surge of energy, some kind of awakening, and your body for some drunk-ass reason kinda took the release, and instead of venting it—like what you’re  _ supposed _ to do, hence the word ‘release’—turned it inward, contained it inside yourself.  _ Then,  _ it shunted the excess off to a node in your left shoulder. Dunno why it did that, but I can’t exactly  _ ask  _ it, so…” Kyomi shrugged.

“That’s interesting and all,” Katsumi acknowledged. “But not what I meant. I meant to ask why you’re  _ here  _ and not in Rosenfaire. Madam Tsuyu gave you the week off to go there, after all, and you certainly seemed to jump at the chance when it was presented.”

“Ah. That,” Kyomi said, her tone sour. “Yeah, well, Ástríðr owes me big time.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Look at me, being anything  _ but  _ surprised. She felt out of her depth in dealing with you, so she roped Kagura and me into helping her help you,” Kyomi sighed. “I mean, given what just happened, I’m glad I did, and truthfully, it’s not  _ that _ big a deal. Sophia’ll be coming around in two days with the ducal delegation to get here ahead of the Bantamoor and Emberlet delegations for the wedding prep and everything. It’s just  _ fucking annoying.  _ I mean, I like you, Katsumi, I really,  _ genuinely  _ do, just as much as Kagura does despite the fact that I don’t show it nearly as often as she does. Don’t get that twisted. It’s just…”

“No, I get your frustration,” Katsumi interjected. “I might be your friend, but I’m not the person you’re in love with, and no matter how close of friends we might be, even if we were bosom companions, it’d still suck to be denied that person, even if only for a few days longer.”

Kyomi smiled, the expression weak but genuine. “Thanks for being so understanding. Between you and… I don’t actually know how I was gonna finish that… Look, Katsumi, you’re a good friend.”

Katsumi’s immediate reaction was as visceral as it was negative, but she managed to noose it enough that all she said was, “I’m not certain about that, but I’m trying.”

“Mm,” Kyomi hummed noncommittally. “I guess we’ll see, now won’t we?”

“I suppose. I’d best make sure Dame Rienna’s informed of me being back in action. We’re coming up on the tournament fast, and I don’t feel nearly as confident in my skill level as I’d like to be at the moment,” Katsumi mused. “I feel bad enough about losing almost three days of training. I’d rather not miss any more.”

“Well, if you’d like,” Kyomi began. “I know my qualifications are hardly  _ ideal, _ but I could try and teach you some basic black magic over the next week—if you’re open to it, of course. You’ve got a substantial pool of magic power, and it’d be a shame to let it go to waste. Not to mention, you can never have too many advantages…”

“I’d like that,” Katsumi said with a smile.

Kyomi smiled broadly back. “Wonderful! I’ll get organised, and we’ll start after the midday meal. How’s that?”

“It’s an appointment,” Katsumi nodded.

Kyomi chuckled a bit as she turned away and began to walk back into the bordello proper. “Could be better, but we’ll work on it. See you then!”

* * *

True to expectations, on Day Five after the incident, Day Two after Kyomi offered to teach her some basic magic, the ducal delegation arrived in Maelnaulde. It was mid-afternoon before Sophia Holstein was able to politely excuse herself from the goings-on, handing off her duties to the only person in whom Mercédès seemed to invest enough trust to allow to serve as her Minister of the Interior—namely, herself—so that the chief envoy, Sophia, could make her way into the Rouge to visit Kyomi. 

By the point the time came, Kyomi was practically ricocheting off of the walls, to the point where even Kagura was pitching in on the attempt to keep her nervous energy in check. When the door opened, they were in a rather compromising position, Kagura sitting on her sister’s legs with Ástríðr exerting her strength on the vii’s torso, while Katsumi was hard at work putting the finishing touches on the bindings of her wrists. She didn’t quite remember  _ when  _ she picked up torinawajutsu, but she was never particularly one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Of course, the moment the final cinch snapped closed and Kagura and Ástríðr got up off of her, leaving Katsumi confident in her friend’s inability to slip free, an easy, smooth, distinctly accented contralto let out a surprised laugh. “I’m sorry. Am I interrupting something?”

“ _ Sophia! _ ” Kyomi cried, and suddenly she was slamming into the woman’s chest like a bullet, leaving behind a coil of rope in the space she had just occupied, much to Katsumi’s confused consternation and the bemused resignation of the other two. “Sophia! Hi!”

“Hey, Kyomi,” the woman replied, wrapping her arms around the smaller vii.

Sophia Holstein was tall and fairly imposing, creeping up on but not quite achieving the Amazonian frame of Ástríðr. Her knee-high brown leather boots and form-fitting black leather trousers, together with her reinforced gunmetal black corset tank top, were not just stylish, but also sturdy, and Katsumi figured they could take a few hits straight-on in a pinch. Over her shoulders she wore a royal blue half-jacket, also armoured, the sleeves of which went halfway down her forearm, and her hands were sheathed in black leather half-palm gloves. Above the neck, itself encased within a choker that looked able to take a crossbow bolt if need be, was a face that, while certainly attractive enough, looked artificial. It was slight and barely there, but once it struck Katsumi, she couldn’t unsee it.

Her features were, while angular, still distinctly feminine, if more than a bit austere and stereotypically aristocratic, with a stronger brow than Katsumi herself, though not incredibly so, and blue-black hair that almost looked more like a dark purple, cut short in a modified bob and swept largely to one side. The oddest part, however, was her eyes, which were narrow and bore the colour of molten gold, sweeping around the room and seeming to miss nothing, no matter what obstacles existed between her and the object of her scrutiny.

When they locked onto her, she felt a distant part of her raise its hackles at the impassive stare, but Sophia smiled in greeting, and though it didn’t nearly reach her eyes, Katsumi was inclined to believe that this was the best Sophia could do with regards to emoting, so she relaxed, active vigilance settling to semi-passive wariness. “Well well, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. You must be Rienna’s newest protégé. She’s told me quite a bit about you, says you’re quite remarkable as a fighter.”

“Really?” Katsumi asked, standing from her crouched position and crossing her arms over her chest skeptically. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

“Well, you know Rienna. She doesn’t really do the whole ‘uncomplicated praise’ thing,” Sophia admitted. “But I’ve known Rienna for almost thirty years by now, and while I can’t claim to read her nearly as well as Lady Tsuyu here can, I’ve been around her long enough to get the hang of reading between the lines when she speaks. She thinks the world of you, Katsumi of the Fallen Rain. Never doubt that.”

“It’s immaterial. I can’t afford to let myself lapse regardless.”

“If Rienna saw fit to teach you personally, I know for a fact that you already knew that and didn’t need to say it aloud,” Sophia returned, her admonition truthful, but still good-natured, as she released Kyomi from her embrace and Kyomi skirted to the side, still as close as she could feasibly be without touching the envoy, but no longer restricting her motion.

“It’s good to see you, Sophia,” Madam Tsuyu called as she entered the commons from the kitchen and the cellar. “You’re looking well.”

“And you are as vital and vibrant as ever, Lady Tsuyu,” Sophia said, bowing low at the waist with an arm swept across her chest.

The older woman caught her laughter behind her folding fan, a proper akomeogi. “Come now, dear girl. I get enough formality from our little dragon refusing to drop the ‘madam.’ You ought to know by now that you may call me simply by my name.”

“Certainly, but you know what they say about old habits,” Sophia chuckled as she rose.

“Old habits are but leaves on the vine, like brave little soldier boys who think they’ll come marching home,” Tsuyu shot back. “And we both know quite enough about them, now don’t we?  _ Lady Hoarfrost? _ ”

“Point taken,” Sophia replied, somewhat stiff with visible discomfort, but duly chastised.

“Excellent,” Madam Tsuyu replied, clapping her hands together and snapping the fan shut in the process. “Now, have any of you children given thought as to what you wish to call yourselves? Time grows short, after all. You have two days left before you absolutely  _ must  _ register in the lists, and while my husband wished to give you all a gentle prodding, I feel a more insistent hand is required here, especially with the need so close at hand.”

“Well, we were somewhat hoping that Sonja would return first, so that we could all have a hand in choosing our name, Madam Tsuyu,” Katsumi said.

“Correction,  _ you  _ were hoping Sonja’d return, babe,” Ástríðr interjected. “Soph, back me up here.”

“Why? You’re correct,” Sophia replied, bemused. “You’d sooner see the sun rise in the west and set in the east than Sonja putting down a grudge. She’ll return when she’s good and ready and not a moment before, so you really can’t wait on her.”

“Fine,” Katsumi replied with a sigh. “Any suggestions?”

“Magic Shinobi Squad Galactor!” Kagura proclaimed.

“Midnight Falcons?” Ástríðr posited.

“ Fūrinkazan,” Kyomi piped up. “Or Rōtashi Aku no Hana. Otherwise, I got nothing.”

“We’re not using Fūrinkazan. Rōtashi Aku no Hana, though…” Katsumi considered. “It’s good, but I feel like the last thing we need is to emphasise the fact that three of the five of us aren’t from the Free Cities. So, something like that, something almost as allegorical, but…not quite as overtly Far Eastern, you know?”

The four of them signalled their agreement with little grunts, before lapsing deep into thought, contemplating what they were going to use.

“Hasn’t this game gone on long enough, Tsuyu?” Sophia asked, looking pointedly at the oldest woman in the room.

Madam Tsuyu pouted. “You’re no fun. But fine. Tandem approached Yuriya and I did the same for Sebastian, and the three of us approached Rienna with it. Tandem thought that if you needed a name, you could just use our old one from when we were an adventuring company, and the others and I agreed. It’s been largely forgotten in the current talk of adventurers and heroes, especially over the past few decades — today, the name to know is that of Bantamoor’s own Warriors of Light, after all —but there was a time, specifically during the course of the Great War and its immediate aftermath, that the name of our company, and the image of the banner we fought under, was known not just in the Free Cities, but the world over. ”

With that, she reached into her wide sleeves and brought forth a roll of what looked to be high-quality canvas as she walked over to a nearby table. She slammed it down, unfurling it, and upon the flag was a great leafless black tree with an extensive root system on a field of grey, with a grinning face near the base on the trunk. The face showed only the shape of eyes and the broad smile, which were filled with vibrant, bloody red.

“We were called the Laughing Tree, and that name, should you wish to use it, shall be a gift from all of us who were once adventurers, to you, our successors, as an inheritance, for we believe you all willing and able to use it well.”

Katsumi barely heard Madam Tsuyu’s explanation, too drawn to the image of the tree, the figure of it, attempting to discern where she had seen it before. It took her an instant to recognise it from the gil, for a simplified version of this very tree was stamped opposite the raptor on the golden coin, but it was  _ more  _ than that. Through her head passed the same few snippets of prose,  _ World Tree  _ and  _ Irminsûl  _ coupled with names — _ Yggdrasill,  _ and another that was so distressingly at the edge of her memory that she was very nearly wroth at her inability to retrieve its meaning. 

_ Phantasia. _

“It’s perfect.”

It took everyone else looking at her for her to realise those words had come from her own mouth. She cleared her throat and schooled her expression to save face. Stepping forth into what felt like a reflex, an instinct-driven impulse, she asked, “Is anyone opposed?”

“I like it,” Kagura vouched.

“Oshare da yo ne,” Kyomi agreed.

“Thanks, Mom,” was  Ástríðr’s contribution. “It’s great.”

“I hear no dissent,” Katsumi remarked. “Sh ō ganai na. Then from this moment henceforth, we shall be known as—

“—The Order of the Laughing Tree.”


	13. Ain't It Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perspective change! Next Laughing Tree chapter is going to be 17. 13 and 14 will be for the Warriors of Light, while 15 and 16 will be for the last remaining set of major adventurers. And incidentally, this is the last chapter I currently have finished. Chapter 14 will be posted one week from today.

The man’s name was Leander Scylding, the current Grand Champion of the duelling circuit of Bantamoor’s famous Burning Colosseum. He was tall and lean, with a sort of physical presence that was striking and dashing—that is, until he opened his mouth. Though his immaculately coiffed inky black hair, polished and oiled to an eye-catching sheen, and angular, aristocratic features that bordered on fey, made him certainly a pretty enough sort to look upon, his ever-present hauteur and supercilious sneering gave him a repulsive quality that was only overcome by the most admirably determined sort of opportunistic groupies. The women who bore up under his condescension and unrelenting vainglory with a hollow, pretty smile, focused on the riches and connections riding the trail of his rising star could put within their reach, had nothing but Ardrea’s most heartfelt respect, as they had Dorothea’s, though the latter was less likely to ever admit it.

That was the only reason she felt even slightly conflicted about what they were about today. Otherwise, there would be nothing but uncomplicated and unbound glee at the idea of what would most likely transpire in their wake. The man’s boorish and unearned arrogance would have been grating enough, though easily out of sight, and therefore out of mind; however, he had made the mistake of mouthing off about the various members of their company, the Warriors of Light, whom he had failed to bed—which made up their totality—and spreading unsavoury rumours. His clumsy, rude, brutish attempts at flirtation were easy enough to brush off, but their  _ reputation? _

For Ardrea, it was safe to say that the moment he came near  _ that  _ aspect of them, he had brought this upon himself.

The fact that when the arena opened tomorrow, Scylding was set to match his spear against their friend, the up-and-coming Casimir Hartigan, and his ever-nimble smallsword, of course had nothing to do with it.

Obviously.

For all that he liked to posture, Scylding was in fact far from beyond reproach, and like many athletes enmeshed in bloodsport, he was deeply superstitious. Sometimes he was known to pick different spears from a rack, using one at a time for one blow each before discarding it, but the man wasn’t a complete idiot. He had skill that couldn’t be denied, did the Grand Champion, but Casimir was  _ vicious,  _ and even a pompous arse like Scylding knew that he had to be on his guard. The Burning Colosseum generally didn’t hold mortal combat matches, and in fact, only to first blood was regulation, but their weapons were live steel, and it was not uncommon for one fighter to kill the other on those sands, so in a very literal sense, the slightest misstep on Scylding’s part would be the death of him. It was for that reason that Scylding, they knew, would take only his main and most favoured spear into the match, believing that it brought him luck that would give him the edge he would desperately need to overcome that raw, brutal killer instinct that no amount of training or skill could produce, and that Casimir possessed in spades.

Dorothea was an adept thief, and Ardrea was a master hunter, and so the process of disguising themselves and slipping into the man’s lodging in his private suite in the Colosseum’s barracks presented exactly zero challenges. It was almost too easy, in fact, and it would have been even easier if Dorothea was willing to rope their designated ‘team mom’ Cassandra, who worked in the Colosseum as their resident healer, into the plot; of course, Dorothea had been against it, citing that Cassandra had only recently managed to gain the position and she didn’t want to jeopardise that for her, and Ardrea agreed, so they were here infiltrating on their own.

It was here that Scylding’s promiscuity aided them, as two unknown women wandering the barracks towards the Grand Champion’s quarters was no longer quite as unfamiliar a sight as it ought to have been; thus, no one asked any questions as they approached the only single occupant apartment in the entire complex.

Of course, the chambers weren’t vacant when they got there, but the man himself was as unconscious as they came, a product of his little-known habit of consuming soporifics the night before a match for which he was particularly nervous—it was perplexing, really, that a man with this perfect storm of being entirely too public and wholly too private had not been taken advantage of in this way sooner. Perhaps it was because the matches of the Burning Colosseum were considered sacrosanct for those born within Republican territories? It mattered not. The holes in security existed all the same, and they summarily exploited them.

Dorothea Gremory, the leader of the Warriors of Light, was the first to spot the man’s longspear in the corner of the room, far from his bed, in a little alcove against the far wall between a wardrobe and the adjacent wall. It was an odd piece, she noted distantly as Dorothea grabbed it surreptitiously from its hiding place, more a glaive than a spear, but it worked well enough for their purposes; Ardrea Crocell, Dorothea’s second-in-command for the adventuring company to the extent that it mattered, nodded, touching her hand to the weapon as she reached deep within herself, that vacant pit created within her through extensive, ritualistic transformative surgery, and pulled forth the knowledge of ‘Acid Surge.’ An ability native to the wretches of the Great Swamp of Gravenmyre, itself a region of the distant continent of Mysidia that rested several months’ sailing to the east, it was a particularly nasty attack that leached integrity from metal, causing no superficial damage even as it rendered finely-worked and expertly-tempered steel as brittle as flint. Of course, she had had it inflicted upon her during the course of her training, and, having experienced the essence of the wretches’ bothersome ability, could pull upon magic to replicate the effect.

Of course, this ability was almost useless in combat, as few monsters used metal weapons and it flatly didn’t work on weapons enhanced through magical means, but it was in her repertoire and thankfully was perfect for this precise situation.

Dorothea repressed a giggle when Ardrea retracted her hand and nodded to tell her companion that she was done without speaking; moments later, it was as though nothing had happened, and they slipped out of the room, taking an exit-only shortcut that slipped them out into the night air of the Republic of Bantamoor.

The next morning, disguises set aside, Dorothea, Ardrea, and the rest were all together in the stands to watch Casimir’s bout against the Grand Champion. The Galeborn Zarya Caduceus Castracani sat beside her lover, the drahn Mami of the Threefold Tomoe, and their gazes were a study in contrasts; blue-eyed Zarya, ever the sporting type, watched with a particular sanguine anticipation, while Mami’s white gaze was some mixture between disinterest and genuine irritation—which was far from an uncommon sight for her, but noteworthy all the same. Ophelia Hexennacht, a rune fencer from the fallen kingdom of Vlindrel, far to the north, and thus looking, though not feeling, like a hume, possessed, as usual, an entirely inscrutable expression, and the murderous aura that radiated from her at all times seemed no more agitated than was typical. Though they were equally as indecipherable as her countenance and posture, Ardrea liked to think that Ophelia’s captivating crimson eyes reflected such sentiments.

Ardrea’s attention swept back to her Dorothea, who possessed a mind sharp as a stiletto with a tongue to match, and wondered what she was staring at in so aquiline a fashion with her sharp, exacting emerald gaze in the brief instants before the hawker announced the contestants making their ways onto the sands.

Leander Scylding was there as always, tossing his coiffed and voluminous oiled hair to one side and giving what he surely thought was a winning smile, to which his groupies fawned as if on cue. Ardrea admired their dedication and resolve, if not the means to which they put those qualities; but today was different. From the opposite side of the blood-sands came their friend and ally, and Casimir Hartigan was everything that his opponent was not. His lips were painted a bright, gentle blue, and his mauve eyes were accented in lavender hues, his electric purple hair tumbling just past his shoulders; he was slender where Scylding was broad, effeminate where Scylding was stereotypically masculine, and while the Grand Champion’s gaze was clouded with bravado, Casimir’s stare could feasibly draw blood. When Scylding’s lips peeled away in an approximation of a smile or a condescending sneer, it was insufferable, while Casimir’s upturned lips were reminiscent of the gentle, artful arc of a garotte wire.

Scylding wore an open doublet with a white tunic free underneath, his trousers tight and his shoes more like slippers, thin and with good purchase on the sand. Casimir, however, was dressed impeccably, the perfect image of a nimble, highborn duellist, bearing a cavalier’s shoulder-cape and a pair of boots with substantial heels, perplexingly enough; what similarities did exist between the two contenders acted less as unison and more as juxtaposition, highlighting Casimir, hard and bitter and somewhat aloof, as a predator, ruthless and cold-blooded and disinclined to miss even half a chance to tear the Grand Champion’s throat out with his teeth.

“Welcome, citizens of Bantamoor, to the Burning Colosseum! And boy, do we have a show in store for you today! In the east where the sun rises, issuing the challenge—the Bloody Nightingale himself, Casimir Hartigan!” At the hawker’s prompting, a modest cheer went up for their friend, though more prevalent was the audible dissent. Few knew the defender beyond the ring, and fewer still condemned his lifestyle, and so he was a bit of a crowd favourite. Speaking of which… “And in the west where the sun sets, you all know him, many of you love him, the current and reigning Grand Champion and Bantamoor’s favourite son—the one, the only,  _ Leander Scylding! _ ”

The cheering that came from the stands was deafening.

“Now we shall see if our Grand Champion remains at the top of his game, or if this upstart challenger can snatch the title from his complacent hands!  _ Let the blood feed the fires! _ ”

The cheering intensified, and a concussive wave blew through the spectators at the sheer force of it.

“Fighters, take up arms!”

A scantily-clad woman came from Leander’s entryway, bringing with her his favourite longspear. He grabbed it, swept dramatically into a bow, and pressed his lips against her hand with a wink, at which she giggled as though on cue. The crowd’s reaction was a combination of laughing, cheering, and wolf-whistling. 

In contrast, there was no one who came up to hand Casimir his sword, as, ever-paranoid, he trusted none but himself with its care, maintenance, and transport; he reached beneath his cavalier’s cape and drew forth his fine Rhiannon Blackwood-custom smallsword, its gilded and elaborate basket hilt glimmering in the sunlight, followed by the lustrous silvery sheen of its blade. He settled from that draw into an engarde, still smiling, though now with an edge of mockery as Leander rose and turned to face him. Casimir smirked. “Are you quite done?”

“Verily. I shall not tarry a moment longer to send a villainous urchin like yourself back to the abyss from whence you crawled!” Leander cried in answer.

The crowd cheered, but to Ardrea, and indeed, the rest of the Warriors of Light, it was clear that Leander had inadvertently struck a nerve; Casimir’s veneer of merriment dropped, and in its place was solemn severity overtop the seething fury they saw coiling and building within him. It was at this point that Ardrea began to wonder whether or not sabotaging the Champion was overkill, but quickly dismissed it; sabotaging his spear was revenge for the Warriors of Light, while his death would be Casimir’s retribution. Twofold poetic justice.

When Leander slipped into his low battle-stance, the hawker waited the span of three restful heartbeats, and then cried, “ _ Begin! _ ”

Casimir didn’t immediately charge Leander, and Leander, obviously banking on the lowborn savagery narrative, had no plans to strike the first blow; after a faltering moment of shock, Leander began to make his way into pacing around Casimir, while Casimir kept his sword raised, the point on target as his eyes fixated on it, and in turn, Casimir responded in kind, the two of them circling each other like the spokes of a wheel around an invisible hub.

The Bloody Nightingale’s stare was unerring, meeting the Grand Champion’s without hesitation or fear. After a few moments of tense, silent circling, where even the audience seemed to be holding their collective breath, the simple mind-game seemed to trigger upon Scylding’s fraught nerves, causing his composure to break first.

The spear shot towards Casimir at half the speed of an adder’s lunge, but Casimir, seeing it in the Champion’s eyes before Scylding made his first move, was already dancing just out of the way, stepping forth and slamming a foot down on the shaft of the spear. He then ducked out of the way before the Grand Champion used his spearman strength to throw him off balance, leaving the Champion to raise his spear and swing it horizontally, like a partisan.

A hair and no more could pass in the space between Casimir’s nose and the spear-point as he bent backwards to evade.

He bent back up, but Scylding moved in and slammed the now exposed butt of his spear into Casimir’s chest, staggering him. He turned the spear end over end to bring the point now again to bear, thrusting once more to catch the Bloody Nightingale as he recovered.

Casimir dodged the first thrust, but immediately after it came another. Then another. Then another. The Grand Champion’s spear was a blur, and all their friend could do was dodge and weave while giving an ilm of ground at a time.

In a change of tactic, he ducked beneath the spear, going low to the ground and sweeping with his leg; Scylding’s legs weren’t caught in it, but the sand that sprayed forth would have hit the Grand Champion’s eyes had he not immediately retreated.

An ordinary fighter would be shaken; for Casimir, it was only a reminder that Scylding didn’t buy his way into becoming Grand Champion. Thusly reassured, the Bloody Nightingale, now having his opponent’s measure, approached to begin his attack. Casimir tended to use one combination that almost invariably tipped the scales in his favour, his “Fourfold Flourish,” as he named it; Scylding saw that he was approaching, and struck for his head, a favourite of his as it made the bleeding clear, and if it hit, would summarily win him the bout.

The first cut—zwerchhau. The Grand Champion’s attack came and Casimir’s smallsword caught it just below the spearhead in such a way that Scylding needed to move to avoid it. The hit didn’t land, but Casimir was far from finished; he brought the spear around and to the ground. Scylding sacrificed his distance.

The second cut—redoublement. He baited Scylding’s diagonal upswing with a feint, and then dashed for his stomach. The Grand Champion saw this and dodged out of the way at the last moment, thus sacrificing his footing.

The third cut—remise. He tilted his sword and lunged, and while the Grand Champion managed to retract his spear to critical distance to use the head to deflect the smaller weapon’s hit, the moment the smallsword’s point made contact with the spearhead, their sabotage paid dividends, the metal shattering with the sound of shearing in a shower of hot sparks. Scylding managed to lash his head back to defeat the undeterred lunge, but it sent him into a stagger, sacrificing his balance.

The fourth cut, the finale—reprise. With a flourish, Casimir returned to engarde, and then lashed forth with a viper’s speed; the sword struck true, its original target revealed, burying itself up to nearly the hilt in the Grand Champion’s larynx and bursting out the other end in a spraying shower of blood.

Within the span of an inhale, the Grand Champion had gone from an advantageous retreat to having his throat impaled on Casimir’s sword, his head and body twitching as his spine severed and his lungs began to fill.

Scylding, his eyes wide with shock and mortal horror, coughed, and red splashed onto the victor’s face, who took it without so much as a flinch. Casimir slid the sword free of his opponent’s neck and out to the side, tossing the blood from it while his other hand retrieved a handkerchief, wiping what remained from the metal before returning it to its scabbard. With that support gone, the Grand Champion fell to his knees and then bonelessly onto his face, spurts of blood gushing from the wound and onto the sands.

The crowd was speechless.

“Uh… G-give it up for…” the hawker began, audibly flustered and clearly astonished, “…Casimir Hartigan, our new Grand Champion!”

The sound that came next, if bottled, could have levelled a battlefield with its intensity.  
Dorothea turned to Ardrea, and they embraced each other, overcome with glee that their project had indeed borne fruit, heedless of the eyes of the other three members of their company that were fixed upon them, alight with suspicion. 

* * *

“Okay, spill.”

Ardrea noted absently that at least Zarya had the wherewithal to wait until they were back home before launching into her tirade; doubly so for waiting until they were in the War Room, which was, incidentally, the name Mami had chosen to give it. Some sort of sentimental value the name had.

The Warriors of Light, thanks to both Cassandra and Dorothea with all of their side-jobs, were lodged in a large manse outside of the sprawling expanse of Bantamoor proper, far from the stench and clamour of the foundries and refineries. It was fully-furnished and had an oddly utilitarian opulence to it that fit them. Mami, their white mage, was sat at the long round wooden table in the centre of the War Room, flipping absently through a tome of esoteric magic that Ardrea recognised and knew the raven-haired drahn had already finished, possibly more than once; Dorothea was reclined on the sofa to the side, curled up in a manner reminiscent of a feline, as though the lightly-tanned, wavy-haired brunette expected to be rendered in portraiture given her pose, and while Zarya stood, blue-haired, tall, strong and incensed, against the chalkboard opposite the floor-to-ceiling windows, Ardrea standing just apart from her, with the span of the table though not its physical presence between them, black-haired Ophelia’s compelling blend of soft curves and hard muscle was leaned up against the wall in the far corner, in the darkest part of the room furthest removed from the sunlight streaming through the windows, silent, vigilant, and at the moment, ever so slightly judgemental.

Of course, given the subject matter and the fact that Ophelia always seemed to just  _ know  _ what they did, it was hardly surprising. 

“What is there to spill?” Dorothea whined with an air of aristocratic irritation. “The man talked shit about us, trying to damage our rep. And he paid the price for it. So now when other people are getting ready to talk shit about us, they’ll point to the  _ late _ Leander Scylding, and say ‘he thought he was powerful enough to badmouth them without consequences, and we all know where it got him.’ It’s just basic thugonomics.”

Zarya turned and stared, open-mouthed, at Dorothea. “Basic  _ what? _ ”

Dorothea shrugged. “Basic thugonomics.”

“No, I heard what you said. What the fuck is ‘thugonomics,’ and how did you hear about it?”

“In order: first, it is the study and practise of being a, and I quote, ‘boss-ass bitch,’ and second, the person who taught me both sets of words is Mami,” Dorothea explained patiently.

“One, I was thoroughly inebriated at the time—I  _ still  _ believe it’s a crime against nature for something so sweet to get you drunk so fast, by the way, and it was a dirty trick of you to give it to me  _ knowing  _ that to be the case—and two, hearing you use both of those phrases without so much as a hint of self-awareness has given me sufficient cause to regret anew the course my life has taken, that it has resulted in hearing you use those phrases unironically,” Mami replied blithely without looking up from her book. 

“…Okay, putting that  _ thoroughly  _ aside for the moment,” Zarya began at length, “do you mean to tell me that you, Dorothea, and you, Ardrea, snuck into the dormitories and  _ sabotaged  _ the Grand Champion the night before his match against  _ Casimir? _ ”

“No, but only because ‘meaning’ to tell you implies a chance of failure,” Dorothea returned. “We’re unambiguously saying that’s what we did.”

“Indeed,” Ardrea interjected. “I believe the phrase is ‘talk shit, get hit?’”

The bang as Mami’s head hit the table, and the repeated banging that followed, ensured that no one missed the muttered, “What is my life right now…?”

“I can’t believe you two!” Zarya erupted. “The Burning Colosseum is virtually  _ sacrosanct  _ to the culture of Bantamoor! You’ve pulled off some questionable stunts in the past, but this is thoroughly beyond the pale!”

“I’m confused. How, exactly, is any of this in any way out of character for us?” Ardrea asked, cocking her head and brushing several locks of voluminous fuchsia hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear.

“I cannot help but be struck by how thoroughly disingenuous your moral outrage sounds in the face of the large pot of winnings you drew in off of bets on the match, Zarya,” Ophelia smoothly cut in. “How much was it this time? I heard the betting odds were one hundred eighty three to one in favour of the Grand Champion.”

“…Th-the odds when I put my stake down were two hundred fifty-six to one,” Zarya admitted.

“So, you come away with two hundred fifty-six gil to every single gil you put on Casimir, coming away with  _ how  _ much gil?” the rune fencer prompted further. “Because, while I am certainly no expert, given the sizeable chunk I saw you putting down as a stake, my arithmetic brings me to somewhere on the order of twenty million.”

“Nineteen million two hundred thousand,” Zarya sighed. “You’ve made your point.”

“Have I?” Ophelia asked, quirking a brow. “I do not begrudge you all your merriment, but it is so very perplexing how you southrons seem so talented in standing tall and firm on such  _ infinitesimal _ quantities of ground. In Vlindrel, it would be customary to  _ thank  _ someone who did you such a great service in sparing you having to forfeit your seventy five  _ thousand _ gil stake.”

Zarya huffed. “Fine. Thanks, guys.”

“ _ Seventy five thousand? _ ” Dorothea asked incredulously.

“Well, of course,” Zarya shrugged. “I could absorb the loss from my share of our coffers, and it’s boring to bet when the odds are thoroughly in your favour, yaah?”

“You know, you could always just, I don’t know,  _ not  _ bet exorbitant sums of money on contests that are regularly fixed?” Mami sighed, sitting up and closing her book slowly, putting it to the side on the table. “Just a thought?”

Zarya looked affronted at that. “And disrespect  _ my  _ heritage?! Why, I would never be able to show my face in the Maelstrom again!”

“Such a  _ tragedy… _ ” Mami said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

“See? You get it!”

Mami threw her hands up in exasperation. “Fuck it. I tried. You all saw!”

“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter,” lamented Zarya. “With an upset that big, there’s not going to be much sport in betting on the Colosseum matches. No one’s going to be betting big for a while now, and that _ completely  _ sucks the fun out of it…”

“Not to mention, all the high-rollers are more fixed on the outcome of Maelnaulde’s upcoming tourney,” Dorothea remarked. “One of Chancellor Berghan’s aides approached me this morning. We’ve been invited to represent Bantamoor when that happens in two weeks’ time. I’m thinking of turning the offer down flatly, as I think we have better things to be doing with our time than being game pieces on the politics board, but I didn’t want to make a decision like that unilaterally.”

“Agreed,” Zarya nodded.

Ophelia grunted her assent.

Ardrea, however, noticed the fact that Mami was incredibly and visibly hesitant to voice her opinion—which was, coming from  _ Mami of the Threefold Tomoe, _ quite thoroughly alarming. Worse, she looked  _ anxious  _ about it. “Mami? What’s wrong?”

Mami’s white eyes snapped from her hands in her lap to Ardrea, and then back again. She shook her head almost violently, sending silky black hair flying to and fro. “It’s…it’s nothing.” 

Dorothea’s insouciance instantaneously dissipated. She put her feet on the ground and stood, walking over to Mami and kneeling beside her chair. “Come on, Mami. You can tell us.”

“I got another one of  _ those  _ letters this morning,” Mami sighed, reaching into her satchel that hung off the back of her chair and pulling forth an immaculate, fine black envelope, edged in gold filigree and sealed in red wax that seemed to be made from crushed and powdered rubies. “I haven’t read it yet, but given the timing, it can’t be a coincidence.”

The mood of the room turned grave. Everyone knew about the letters Mami received from time to time, always just before a significant event, always with warnings or advice, stated invariably in the most cryptic ways possible such that they rarely made complete sense except in retrospect. The phrasing only ever told them exactly how much they needed to know to act in a way that made the rest make sense later, after all, after the chips fell. These letters always came in the same black-and-gold stationery, the staggering expense of such readily apparent; yet, there was no signature, magical or mundane, and the letters always appeared in Mami’s path, usually by the nightstand on her side of the bed she shared with Zarya, with no sign of how it had gotten there, and they had yet to be successful in observing the phenomenon directly given the seemingly random frequency with which they were delivered. That another one should appear… 

Mami was correct, and they all knew it. Simple coincidence was an impossibility here.

Dorothea took the envelope from Mami primly, palming a letter opener and breaking the blank wax seal—there was, of course, no stamp. Thus opened, she slipped the stiff missive, a sable card seemingly cut from the cloth of night, which itself fit perfectly into the envelope, no folds needed, out of said envelope.

A few tense moments were spent as she rapidly scanned the contents, spidery characters written in livid red as always, and Dorothea’s eyes went wide with shock. “This is… _ significantly  _ less roundabout than the others. It’s still unmistakably from the same hand—the penmanship and the ink are identical—but I can actually tell what it’s saying for once…”

“Unusual, certainly, but not unwelcome, I should think,” Ophelia noted. “Unless, of course, its clarity is meant to entrap us. ‘It is the open book that must be read with the most caution and care,’ as we say in my homeland. The most skilled of deceivers are the ones who know when to tell the truth, and how to most effectively mislead in so doing.”

“Ordinarily, I’d agree with you, Ophelia, but that doesn’t seem to be this person’s m.o.,” Dorothea replied as she stood, her eyes shifting to read through it again. “And this letter seems to follow the same pattern as the previous ones—just in a less opaque manner. Not to the point of full transparency, just that now I have at least an inkling of its message. Ardrea, my love, if you would?”

Ardrea nodded, walking up to Dorothea and taking the small sheet of heavy black stock her lover proffered, clearing her throat as she began to dictate the contents of the missive. “Keep this close, my dearest friend. Another player has joined the game. Tired as you are of my intervention. Such a thing, I suppose I can understand. Unlike my other missives, I’d advise you to heed my words. Maelnaulde is quite lovely this time of year. I look forward to our first meeting. Yours, M.”

“What does it mean?” Zarya asked, her brow furrowed in consternation.

“It means, my friends, that it looks like our plans have changed,” Dorothea announced. “Something very important to our friend Mami is in the Principality of Maelnaulde, and if we don’t play ball, it will remain beyond her grasp, possibly forever. So, we’re going to play this elusive benefactor’s game. I hope I can speak honestly for all of you when I tell Berghan that the Warriors of Light will be representing the Republic of Bantamoor after all.”

* * *

_ Katsumi… How do I know that name…? _

If Mami were to put a name to her state of mind at that precise moment, it would be ‘profound disquiet.’ As soon as she read the missive itself after Dorothea handed it back to her, the name popped into her head and would not leave. She knew the name was important, and any doubts she might have once had about the decision to participate in the tourney were rendered null by its knowledge, but to the best of her recollection, she knew no one by that name. Some part of her insisted on slotting the knowledge of that name in the same space her little sister’s name occupied, an association that, for reasons to which she was not privy, was proving impossible to uncouple.

_ Homura. _

Mami shook her head, and with a great effort, brought herself back to the now. Yes, the training yard, on the grounds of the manse. It was mid-afternoon, and for some moronic reason, maybe a bet, she couldn’t remember, Ardrea, blue mage extraordinaire, stood facing Ophelia, with Dorothea positioned between them. The Vlindreli, her jet black hair pinned in a utilitarian chignon, held her longsword at the ready, while the Zanthian gripped her paired shamshirs in a languid stance that Mami knew from experience would swap into lethal grace without so much as a breath of warning, her fuchsia hair secured behind her in the traditional battle-braid of the myrmidon caste of the Empire of Zanthe. 

Sparring, then, and with live steel, considering that was all these two trained with, and given the situation, she surmised it might fit the dual purpose of dusting off their two strongest melee fighters ahead of when they had to leave to reach the Principality in time for the tournament. Understandable. And in Dorothea’s hand was an iron coin, an old denomination that had since been replaced with the gil, and as such had no value beyond being a collector’s item, an interesting curio—a benign oddity.

Dorothea flipped the coin high into the air and stepped away, making sure to remain out of both of the combatants’ spaces as she quickly made her way over to the bench, where Mami sat with a book open and forgotten in her lap, Zarya, a corsair and thus touting an overlarge flintlock, standing next to her and watching intently. 

The match began when the coin hit the floor. No words were exchanged, no one particularly keen on splitting the sepulchral silence that settled, tense and almost thrumming. Ardrea glared hazel-hued death, her brown skin contrasting with her vivid magenta tattoos that marked her as a future member of Zanthe’s deadly Immortals, and the the light and somewhat foppish royal blue clothes she wore did nothing to dull the razor’s edge of the training and prowess that came with such a heritage. Ophelia’s crimson stared back, impassive, unflinching,  _ unimpressed,  _ ivory skin and foreign countenance unmoving and unaffected, as though the outcome of the battle had already been written in the stars, and all that remained was to give form to the predestined end.

The  _ clink  _ of the iron coin was small, almost unnoticeable, but it rang true like a gong.

The clash that immediately followed was thunderous. Ophelia’s longsword was stopped on Ardrea’s left shamshir, while Ardrea’s right shamshir collided against a wall of force several ilms from Ophelia’s neck.

The two backed away from each other, circling as Casimir and the late Scylding had done in the arena earlier. In the time it would have taken to blink, Ardrea was upon Ophelia again, striking three times with each sword in alternation, and while Mami would not have had time to even take a breath with the speed of the attack, Ophelia’s longsword was there every time, moving from one parry to the next without pause or hesitation, resolute.

When the sixth hit landed, there was not so much as a pause before the odd, feral energies that Mami had come to associate with Zanthian blue magic surged, a quartet of luminous purple beams blasting forth at point blank range at Ophelia. Death Ray, a spell native to the evil eye, a species of solitary anamorph aberrations that made their homes in the darkest, most forgotten corners of the earth, Mami’s brain supplied, and one of the more immediately deadly attacks in the abominations’ arsenal. All four of them hit their targets dead-on, but while Ophelia was repelled, she did not fall. Instead, she changed her grip on her longsword as Ardrea closed to attack again, weaving into the blue mage’s critical zone and grabbing her arms to hold her in place while the rune fencer planted a knee into Ardrea’s now overextended torso.

Stunned and breathless, Ardrea staggered back while bluish-silver light surged to coat Ophelia’s blade. A diagonal up-slash, followed by an arcing down-slash, almost faster than the eye could see, made up the components of the Sickle Moon weaponskill that followed, the light leaving Ardrea to skid back, hit directly, smoking and singed, but ultimately unharmed. Her form glistened with an argent lustre in the immediate aftermath, as the effect she used to protect herself was expended. Metallic Body, a spell learned from the malformed garthrim, massive malicious carcinoid monsters with thick black carapaces and beady ruby-red eyes that stood upright and tall as a galdjent, engineered through means of sorcery most foul to serve as shock troops in an ancient war waged by a long-fallen empire, presumably one of the many undermined by their own hubris and destroyed by flippantly tampering with one too many dangerous magics they didn’t understand.

And, of course, these grotesqueries were only found above water on the twisted beaches of southern Mysidia, where the ground was opaque black glass instead of sand.

“Clever casting,” said Ophelia with a curt nod.

Ardrea smiled grimly as she secured her footing. “You’ve seen nothing yet.”

“Then you ought to show me, before I decide to take exception to your flippancy.”

“Don’t threaten a girl with a good time.”

_ And now they’re flirting. Brilliant.  _ It wasn’t as though Mami herself was innocent of the insinuations being made—two sexually active couples, both comprised of two switches, and one unattached party member who was sexually dominant tended to mean that Ophelia and her sexual prowess was in high demand—but rather, she was still uncomfortable with people flirting in front of her. It was a holdover from when Homura, her beautiful, perfect little sister, would attract entirely the wrong attention, and she, back when she was still Haruhi, would do her duty as the older sibling and cut in behind the scenes to shield her sister from what the kind of people whose attention she attracted would do to her given half the chance, she knew, but it was still an involuntary response, and what with Homura already being in the forefront of her mind, this Katsumi business, and the fact that she could not dislodge from her mind the distinct impression that her leader knew more about her situation than she did, she had had quite enough.

It was as though her body moved on its own, closing the book and leaving it behind on the bench as she got up and walked away, muttering a halfhearted and vague excuse, needing to put distance,  _ any  _ distance, between herself and the overflow from the dam that held back her more…unpleasant memories. She didn’t know where she needed to go—in fact, she knew she had to go nowhere in particular, so long as it was  _ away  _ from the past, from the sister she had left behind to fend for herself, the baby sister she had sacrificed so much and more to protect…only to falter and fall short, in the end. Intellectually, she knew she could not outrun the guilt. In her heart, however, she believed that was no excuse for her to not at least  _ try.  _ For science, of course.

There was always a certain profound sense of liberation in roaming the halls of the manse aimlessly, looking to just be anywhere, and it was no different here, but now it was soured with the walls of her composure, supported by the exterior pressure of everyone around her, falling away and collapsing. She  _ detested  _ crying. She had done all she could to cull her habits of unnecessary crying out of herself, stopped crying when angry or frustrated, even when she was sad, but when no one was around and it all surged up against her, pulling her under like this? It was like a riptide: she was utterly unequal to the task of resisting it, no matter how fervently she wished it were otherwise. 

She was unsure of when she had collapsed to the marble floor, tucked in the corner of one of the manse’s labyrinthine corridors, wracked with tears and painful sobs. In truth, there was part of her that was more chagrined than anything that this was where she was right now, and over something so fundamentally innocuous as two people who she knew slept together on more than one occasion flirting with each other. It was  _ so stupid  _ that  _ that  _ of all things caused her to break down. No, worse than stupid.

_ Pathetic. _

A presence plopped down next to her with a soft grunt, and while she didn’t need to look to see who it was, she looked anyways. Sure enough, there was the ever-glamourous sex icon of Bantamoor, the endlessly flirtacious coquette of a woman who had taken being informed of the phrase ‘be gay, do crime’ from Mami’s old life as Haruhi and built an entire brand out of it, the person who was  _ technically  _ her boss, Dorothea Gremory. Her long, wavy brown hair that framed her fine-featured, heart-shaped face was the colour of mulled cocoa, and her eyes, large but seeming less open and more coy, glinted from time to time like the gemstones they shared a hue with, but other times simply glittered with mirth and mischief. Not for the first time, Mami wondered how one person could be so consistently bedecked in so much jewelry—multiple bracelets, chokers, rings, and earrings, many of them gold and all of them crusted in precious stones—and never end up looking even the slightest bit gaudy or overdone.

And of course, Dorothea was never seen without her choice of clothing that Mami’s cultural upbringing would call tomboyish, but on her, looked nothing short of  _ provocative.  _ Her white poet’s blouse had ruffled cuffs, and the ruffled neckline dipped  _ just  _ low enough to reveal the lack of any sort of undergarments around her chest, the support being handled by her outer garment that was equal parts corset and waistcoat, while her form-fitting pants and thigh-high black boots left nothing to the imagination.

“Is there something particularly fascinating about how I’m dressed?” Dorothea asked, a playful glint in her eye. “Before you ask, no, I haven’t done anything different today.”

“I know that, idiot,” Mami sighed. “I’m more wondering how you pull that off without looking like a slattern.”

“Mystique, dear, and a lot of it,” Dorothea replied. “Turns out you can wear whatever the fuck you want, if you know how to wear it right. If you make it clear through your bearing, attitude, and actions that commenting on your clothes is something only an idiot would do, not because you’ll do them bodily harm, but because there’s nothing wrong with how you’re clothed, you can walk down the street in a burlap sack without drawing so much as a single comment.”

“…Noted, I guess,” Mami said at length. She threw her head back, looking up at the vaulted ceiling, and let her eyes slide shut.

“But that’s not what’s really bugging you, is it?” Dorothea remarked.

And that right there was by far the least attractive thing about the scholar who led the Warriors of Light: she was  _ entirely  _ too perceptive.

“No, it isn’t,” Mami sighed.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly,” Mami replied. “But when _ isn’t  _ that the case?”

“As always, I won’t push you on it,” came Dorothea’s assurance.

“Shouldn’t Zarya be asking me this?” Mami asked.

“She wanted to, certainly,” Dorothea admitted. “I told her to sit tight, and that I’d handle it. Someone needs to keep an eye on the other two, after all—I don’t fancy having to make arrangements for yet more renovation, even  _ if _ that nearly twenty million gil payday Zarya drew in went to pay for it. Rest assured, she’ll say her piece for you later. She really cares about you, you know—it’s heartwarming.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of knowing  _ everything,  _ Dorothea?”

“…I beg your pardon?”

Mami turned to look directly at Dorothea. “Then beg, because I know I didn’t stutter. Doesn’t it ever get tiring, being able to look at a person and see all those little secrets they think safe within their heads, even those they’ve forgotten—or perhaps, even those they themselves never even knew?”

Comprehension dawned in the scholar’s eyes. “Ah. I see. This is about the letter, isn’t it?”

“It’s not just the letter. It’s about how  _ no one _ seems to  _ tell  _ me anything,” Mami groaned. “Least of all you! Do you have any idea what it’s like to have everyone around you seem to know you and everything going on around you better than you feel you could ever hope to?! Do you have even the slightest  _ inkling  _ of how that might feel?”

“Admittedly, I don’t,” Dorothea said. “But I  _ do  _ know a thing or two about people holding things that you value, things and people and  _ relationships  _ you consider precious to you, so far over your head that you can’t hope to reach unless they deign to lower it into your grasp. I know what it is to be forced into powerlessness, to be paralysed and unable to act, to save those you love, those who mean the world to you—and sometimes, even yourself. Your situation, I can only imagine, is even more frustrating, because even the sword you know to be hanging above your head remains out of your sight, but never out of mind.”

Mami didn’t exactly know what to say to that. “Ugh! Do you have any  _ idea  _ how  _ infuriating  _ you are to be mad at?!”

Dorothea shrugged with a smirk, leaning in and pressing a kiss against Mami’s cheek. “I think I have the general gist. Now, do you want to continue trying to be angry with me, or do you want me to tell you what I know?”

“Just tell me, you impossible woman.”

“ _ Never.  _ Call me that again.” Dorothea’s tone lashed scourge-like through the space between them, her expression and aura turning murderous so suddenly that Mami physically recoiled in the corner at its abrupt vehemence.

“O-okay…”

“Good!” said Dorothea, once again all rakish smiles and coquettish cheer. “So, first, the good news. I now know who’s been sending you all these letters. She actually signed the note, so I can’t really take any credit for the discovery. If the situation was any less potentially dire, I think I’d be more than a little miffed for her taking all the fun out of the game by just up and telling me. As it stands, I’m just embarrassed it took her spelling it out for me to suss out the truth—at least, as much of the truth as she was willing to divulge.”

“And this person is…?”

“…None other than Mercédès Charlotte Lucerne, Prince of Maelnaulde,” Dorothea revealed with an implied but obvious flourish.

Mami blinked a few times, incredulous. “That makes  _ no  _ sense. I’ve never met the woman in my life.”

“Be that as it may, she seems to be  _ intimately  _ aware of the goings-on in your life,” the scholar remarked. “And moreover, she wishes to fix that problem you just stated. That was an open invitation for you to come with us to Maelnaulde—well, with an added veiled threat to sweeten the deal, but I get the feeling that’s just how our dear prince is as a general matter. As to what that threat is… You mentioned you had a sister?”

“Yeah, I did,” Mami replied, leashing the surge of worry, guilt, and sadness that mixed and muddled together in her chest. “Homura.”

“Well, I think she found something relating to her. Homura, I mean,” Dorothea posited. “She strikes me as the type to go directly for the throat when she wants something, and there’s nothing better to hold over your head to get you to comply with her demand to meet you, phrased as an invitation though it might be.”

“You think she knows something about Homura…? But…that’s impossible…”

“Apparently not,” Dorothea pronounced primly.

“But…if Homura’s in some sort of danger, we have to go  _ now!  _ We have to…” Mami grabbed her head, her thoughts suddenly whipping themselves into a whirling torrent, scattering cognition, making it impossible to string a progression together with the fragments shifting from moment to moment as they were. She couldn’t even properly parse a fragment before it fractalled itself into nonexistence, winking away as another snapped into place and the cycle repeated over and over and over with her thoughts and the whirling and Homura and her little sister and oh fuck what if she’s already dead what if it’s already too late what if she failed again weak worthless cowardly idiotic foolish…

Dorothea’s arms crushed her head into the hume woman’s deceptively large bust, and the contact was immediately grounding, soothing what remained into some semblance of calm and sense and order. The fractals became rational, snapping into place, qualitative, quantitative, linear, exponential, parabolic… The gentle hushing and the constant, reassuring circular motion on her back certainly helped.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. We’ll go to Maelnaulde. We’ll meet the prince, figure out what she wants, and deal with the situation from there. We’ll figure this out, and we’ll pull through. So have some faith in us, hmm?” Dorothea soothed. “Nakama, right? We’ve got your back, now and forever. Don’t ever doubt that.”

“Your pronunciation is awful, and you’re awful for using it,” Mami chuckled, emotionally drained but relieved, feeling somehow cleansed—not fully, of course, but enough for now. “But thank you, Dorothea. You’re kind of the best.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Don’t  _ fucking  _ ruin this moment, or I swear, I  _ will  _ cut you.”

“Fair enough,” Dorothea chuckled. “Now, I think it’s time we made our way back, lest we worry the others. How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Mami admitted. “Yeah, I’m feeling better. And you’re right. Let’s go.”

“Okay,” Dorothea said, standing and helping Mami to her feet. “You know that you’re a valued member of this team, right? And more than that, you’re a valued friend to all of us. To me. Whatever happens, I want you to promise me you won’t lose sight of that.”

“I promise.”

* * *

Two training areas would ordinarily be seen as an unnecessary extravagance, and rightly so; yet, Mami found herself grateful for it. The other yard was for melee sparring, and with the nature of some of their abilities, it simply hadn’t been practical to stock permanent training dummies there, and portable ones were wholly insufficient; ordinarily, this second yard with effigies galore was used for target practise or spell practise, and indeed, despite some of their proclivities towards hitting each other with swords and spears and the like, they all had cause to make use of that particular utility. 

Tonight, however, Mami had need of these training tools for an alternative purpose.

She never usually resorted to this sort of thing; she had been piss-poor at jūdō as Haruhi—in rather stark contrast to Homura, who had always been naturally brilliant with any martial art that wasn’t kyūdō, and with an especially exceptional aptitude for kendō to the point where she had been in the running for the captaincy before they…parted ways—and that ineptitude translated in full to her life as Mami of the Threefold Tomoe. But that was possibly the furthest thing from her mind in that moment; right then, her only concern was burning off the festering restless energy inside of her by hitting something. Over and over.

Her knuckles had long since gone numb. There was only the dull, thudding impact of her fist against the dummy, again and again, pulsing in a rhythm that, while staggering and dramatically inconsistent, was nonetheless quite thoroughly satisfying for specifically her purposes. Like this, she could imagine the leering faces of every sleazy thug that had ever stared lasciviously at an oblivious Homura, imagine repaying them a hundredfold for the price they had exacted from her in order to  _ stay away from her sister.  _ She could forget the feeling of inadequacy that surged whenever Homura’s unflinching, almost expressionless resolution felled another opponent in the ring, another match or tournament won, the knowledge that Homura could take care of herself with the hidden strength her small, slight form seemed to produce out of nowhere, and so no longer had need of her. She could clear away the bruising on her body, the violation between her legs, the used, skin-crawling feeling in the aftermath, the sheer and pervasive  _ uncleanliness,  _ with images of raw, brutal,  _ violent  _ retribution.

She could ignore the possibility that it had all been for nothing—that perhaps, ultimately, in sacrificing as much as she had to protect Homura, the best she had managed to do had only delayed the inevitable.

“You know, I’ve seen  _ less  _ effective ways of painting a dummy red.”

_ Zarya.  _

“I mean, not  _ many,  _ of course, but they definitely exist…”

Mami missed her next hit, overextending and stumbling forward. She caught herself, and turned around to face her lover. “What are you  _ talking _ about?!”

There she was. Zarya. Wonderful, patient, endlessly understanding Zarya. What the Galeborn saw in her, she had long since accepted she would never understand. Zarya, wild and untameable as the sea itself, whose cobalt eyes were fixed meaningfully on Mami’s hands.

Looking at them, surprise was her first reaction. She had long since split her knuckles, and was probably lucky she hadn’t managed to give herself a fracture. And now that she was no longer hitting things, as the adrenaline abated, she became intimately aware of the sudden flaring throbbing in her hands that she had ignored, that now exerted their vindictive rage against her for not stopping an hour ago, when they had first started begging. “ _ Ow! _ ”

“Ow indeed,” Zarya parroted, bemused, as she reached out and gently took Mami’s hands in her own, scrutinising the damage. “Field medicine is an essential part to any Galeborn’s upbringing in the Maelstrom, so do you need me to take a look at these, maybe bandage them up a bit so they don’t fester? While you explain to me what you were doing?”

“It’s nothing,” Mami sighed.

Zarya arched a brow. “Really, now? Because it  _ looked  _ like you were committing to a self-study course in pugilism via the School of Hard Knocks. Now, I know you’re precocious and a genius, and I love that about you, so I can’t help but wonder how you missed that self-mortification is a rather advanced technique in that tradition. Even  _ I  _ know that it’s typically smarter to learn to walk before you try to run with such things.”

“I’m  _ fine, _ ” Mami snapped, the image of Homura’s concern  _ that had to go unanswered even as it pushed her beloved little sister away _ causing her to lash out, jerking her hands out of Zarya’s as she winced with the sudden shooting pain.

Zarya crossed her arms over her chest. “Mami, if this is about this morning, we can talk about this. I know you wanted to be alone earlier, and Dorothea told me that that was best, but I really want to…”

“I said I’m  _ fine,  _ damn it!” Mami practically yelled.

Zarya’s arched brow softened. “Mami, love… What’s wrong? This isn’t like you.”

“Really?!” Mami laughed mirthlessly, bitterly. “How so,  _ pray tell? _ ”

“No, I’m not playing that game with you. This is too important,” Zarya replied. “You’re particular and you can be irritable, but lashing out like that isn’t your style, especially not where we’re—where  _ I’m _ —concerned.”

“Well, maybe you just don’t have as good of a read on me as you think you do, then!”

“Am I interrupting something?”

Both of them whirled around at the baritone that just rang out across the yard. Sure enough, leaning there against the arching threshold that provided ingress to the yard from the adjacent corridors, with a smirk on his feminine face that died spectacularly before cresting his cheeks, was none other than Casimir Hartigan. “I mean, I apologise if I am, but I couldn’t help but notice with your  _ angelic  _ tones shrieking through this section of the manse.”

“What the  _ fuck  _ are you doing here, Mirrie?!” Mami spat

Casimir’s eyes glinted in annoyance at the nickname, but it faded just as quickly, leaving behind only his immaculate composure. He shrugged. “Well, if you must know, princess, I came to find Dorothea. I could have killed Scylding myself, of course, but it’d be rude to fail to recognise aid that is tendered freely all the same with gratitude. I also could have sent a messenger, but this sort of thing requires a more  _ personal  _ touch. I was just surprised. I didn’t know that the Warriors of Light were in the business of breeding harpies.”

“We’re  _ not, _ ” she growled.

He cocked his head, eyes glittering with equal parts malice and mirth. “Banshees, then? That shrill screeching was  _ very  _ distinctive, after all. Knowing Dorothea, she probably already has the license to keep such  _ monsters  _ on her grounds.”

Mami saw red, stalking past Zarya to the man who watched her with a feigned supercilious sneer, though his eyes declared he was prepared to shed blood; Mami was more than happy to respond in kind. “You  _ really _ need to learn when to shut your fucking mouth, Mirrie.”

“And who’s going to teach me, hmm?  _ You?  _ Spare me,” Casimir scoffed. “I’ve seen  _ kittens _ with more impressive left jabs.”

“ _ GLA—! _ ”

“Stop it,  _ both  _ of you,” Zarya snapped, stepping in between them, the hard look in her eye causing Mami to begrudgingly halt casting her Glare spell.

“I must protest, Zarya, old friend!” Casimir declared with mock offence. “However am  _ I  _ responsible for coming under threat of  _ any  _ variety, magical or mundane?!”

“You didn’t have the decency to  _ die  _ in the gutter you were born to, that’s how,” Mami shot back. “But at least you had the decency to kill your whore of a mother before she had to deal with  _ your _ reptilian ass.”

“Oh, how very mature, referencing my mother in such a fashion,” Casimir replied, his stance shifting subtly to reveal what his voice didn’t—his steadily rising ire. “And tell me, then, what kind of a hole did  _ you  _ crawl out of, then, hmm? Your family must be  _ so proud. _ ”

“Say what you want about my parents, but you leave my sister  _ the fuck  _ out of it!”

“Or what, hmm?” Casimir taunted, shifting his face forward to display his faux-affable expression, so overdone that it was clearly mocking. “Going to  _ scream  _ at me some more? It seems like that’s all you’re good for, really—all flash, no fury.”

“You will still your  _ fucking  _ tongue or I will rip it out of your  _ fucking  _ throat, and happily strangle you with it!” Mami spat, enraged and jabbing a finger into his sternum.

“And what do  _ you  _ care about your sister, hm? I don’t see her anywhere, so you must not have wanted her around,  _ obviously.  _ Or was it  _ she  _ who didn’t want  _ you  _ around?”

“ _ Flash! _ ”

A bright light burst into existence directly in Casimir’s eyes, blinding him with an almost physical force, causing him to stagger. “The fuck is your problem?!”

“ _ You,  _ you unbearable ass!” Mami cried. “My sister’s in fucking  _ danger,  _ possibly  _ dead,  _ and here  _ I  _ am, listening to you  _ bitch and bitch and bitch  _ at me!  _ I’m fucking sick of it! _ ”

Casimir looked stricken for a fraction of a second, putting his hands up and chuckling uneasily. “Well, good luck with that, because that sounds like a whole lot of not my business! So if you could just, you know, direct me to Dorothea, I’ll…”

“You’ll stay put right there until I tell you you can move, or so help me, Casimir, I will make your head explode like an overripe melon,” Zarya threatened, her voice low and deathly serious as she pulled forth her pistol and levelled it between his eyebrows, point-blank. The precise clicking of the percussion hammer being cocked was profoundly unsettling. “And I know for a fact that you cannot put the three hundred paces you’ll need between you and me for me to have a chance of missing the shot before I pull the trigger.”

Casimir sighed, resigned to his situation, and moreover, knowing better than to test Zarya’s patience. “Aye aye, captain.”

She nodded at him curtly, before turning back to the white mage, and Mami swore that locking eyes with her was like getting into a staring contest with a sea serpent. “Now, explain what you meant. From the beginning, if you please.”

Knowing full well that it wasn’t a request, Mami huffed. “Dorothea managed to unravel the message from the letter. The person who’s been sending me these notes is the prince of Maelnaulde, Mercédès Lucerne. She wants to meet me, and she’s holding my sister hostage to get me to comply. I didn’t even know my sister was  _ here,  _ Zarya! I could go there and she could be  _ dead,  _ and I wouldn’t know until I got there! I thought I’d  _ know,  _ you know, if she…if she died, but there’s no  _ knowledge  _ there, and I can’t stop worrying, and it’s driving me mad! I… I don’t know what to do…!”

“Um, I know I’m on thin ice here, but I do have a quick question, potentially relevant,” Casimir piped up, hands still raised in the universal gesture of surrender in recognition of the gun a breath away from his forehead. “I heard through the grapevine that you all are on your way to participate in the prince’s wedding tourney, and it just so happens that I’ve kind of always wanted to break into the Silvern Basilica. Not to rob it blind, you see—okay, well,  _ yes,  _ to rob it blind, but not  _ primarily  _ to nick everything not nailed down, more to see if I  _ could,  _ really. Now, if this is really so important, and since, in light of recent events—great score, by the way, excellent racket, couldn’t have done it better myself—I won’t have any fights in the arena for a while yet, I could travel with you guys and take the opportunity to do what I do best, see what I can find out about this whole mess. Pro bono, of course.”

Zarya looked to Mami, a question in her gaze, to which Mami responded affirmatively. Nodding, Zarya lifted the gun from its bead on the new Grand Champion’s head, who looked for all the world to be as unflappable and composed as ever. Still, Mami had a wonder.

“What’s your angle?” she asked.

“Well, unlike you, princess, I’m not exactly prized for my winning personality,” Casimir explained, a harsh tone in his voice. “You see, I’m fully aware I’m a venomous little shit with a forked tongue. So I have to make myself worth keeping around in  _ other  _ ways. Making myself useful like this is one of them. By the by, I genuinely meant that, Zarya. I heard about the score.  _ Twenty million.  _ That’s some great work.”

“Thanks,” Zarya replied sardonically. “Fleecing capitalist swine is kind of a Maelstrom tradition. And I take pride in my work.”

How…? How had this…? None of this made sense! Casimir had been insulting her just moments ago, insulting  _ Homura,  _ and now he was offering his  _ help? _ Casimir never did  _ anything _ free of charge—he was as mercenary as they came! Had she just screwed up? Had she just accidentally landed Homura in  _ more  _ danger?

She had to leave.

She was gone before either of them had a chance to stop her, running blindly through the manse’s labyrinthine hallways. Of course, she was far from the athletic sort, so before long, her lungs were burning, aching in her chest, screaming for a rest, and her form became sloppy, driven only by a need to get away without regard for stamina.

When she collided with the solid form of another person, rebuffed by their stature and thus falling to the marble floor, her immediate thought was that it was consistent with how the day had gone, that she should be again confronted with yet another opportunity to make a fool of herself. 

Sure enough, it was Ophelia. Strong, stoic, inscrutable Ophelia, with the martial form and noble bearing of the proud people of the Kingdom of Vlindrel, far to the north, several decades shrouded in fell, eldritch fog, and thus lost to the world. 

“I am given to understand that aught is amiss,” Ophelia stated without preamble. “I would know what has you running through the hallways thus undone, Mami. While I would hesitate to call you graceful even at your best, I can say with certainty that you are not usually so profoundly affected.”

She could affect hostility in the face of Casimir, and could somewhat hold to reticence in the presence of Zarya, but there was something about Ophelia, stark and harsh and glacially magnificent as the northern land she had once called home, that frayed her last overtaxed thread of composure just that much more, causing it to finally give and the floodgates to yawn wide.

“My sister… And Dorothea… She’s… Danger… And Maelnaulde… And the prince, the letters, the letters from the prince… She  _ has  _ her, and I don’t… She might be  _ dead!  _ I… It was  _ my  _ job! I  _ had  _ to protect her! And I… I  _ failed! _ ” Mami sobbed. “And she didn’t  _ tell  _ me, she never  _ tells  _ me, even when it’s my  _ fucking sister! _ I can’t… It’s too much, I can’t—I can’t—”

“So, the situation as it stands is as such. You are expected to see the Prince of Maelnaulde via an encoded summons that our leader managed to disentangle at long last. Do you happen to know for an  _ absolute certainty  _ that she desires to hold this sister of yours hostage? She might not have her at all. It is certainly possible,” Ophelia mused, even as her crimson eyes bored into Mami on the floor, ever so slightly luminous in the lengthening shadows. “Though my instinct on the matter leads me to believe it is more likely that she  _ does  _ have your sister, and is informing you as a courtesy, and extending the knowledge to you as an olive branch.”

“But… But Dorothea said… She was a hostage,” Mami babbled.

Ophelia scoffed. “Dorothea is brilliant, undoubtedly, but she gets dizzy walking in a straight line. She assumes ill intent of anyone and everyone whenever given half the chance. It is a flaw of hers, a blind spot, of sorts. She has more than adequate reason to have adopted it, to be certain, and once upon a time, it was perhaps not so blind as much as an observable and consistent fact. Yet, in this case, it blinds her to a certain number of truths, or perhaps simply their relevance to the current state of affairs.”

“Wh…what are those?”

“Well, firstly, that I have heard of the prince of Maelnaulde,” Ophelia began. “I have met her and made her acquaintance, in fact; and while Dorothea enjoys her games perhaps overmuch, to the point where they could be argued to become frivolity, Her Grace is quite a bit more direct. Oh, she certainly enjoys toying with people, but while she does find amusement in raising some up simply to cast them down anew, she bores of such games quickly, and moves on to the next. In summary, had Prince Mercédès wished you ill, she would have acted upon it long before now. That she has continued to aid you this far is a testament to the genuine nature of her goodwill, difficult though her remarkable political acumen may make it to see.

“Secondly, that Dorothea is outmatched in this particular arena,” Ophelia continued. “While she _ is  _ powerful in her own right, Her Grace is, and always has been, the kingmaker of any court into which she steps foot. Dorothea is versatile, but that comes at the cost of diminished proficiency when faced with someone like Prince Mercédès when she is in her arena. Simply put, if Her Grace’s hand in our continuing affairs was not meant to be seen, it would not have been; frivolous as she may seem, it is only in the seeming and not the being that Her Grace is so flippant, and had she wished you harm, neither you nor anyone else would have ever had the slightest chance of knowing by whose hand you were felled.

“And thirdly, that Princess Mercédès is not in the business of intimidation or coercion. She finds such tools and methods unwieldy, crude, and wholly inelegant. She is not possessed of Dorothea’s pathological need to keep secrets: she is capable of being open, and while you will think she is being open while she lies to your face, it is not the case that when she is being genuinely open that it can be mistaken for aught else,” Ophelia finished, reaching down and grasping Mami’s arm, hauling her to her feet. “And, if worst does indeed come to worst, I am given to understand you meant to communicate that protecting your sister was not only your sole duty, but also  _ solely _ your duty in the past. Indeed, if Mercédès Lucerne seeks to make herself your adversary, alone you could not hope to prevail, I shall grant you that much; yet, the fact remains that you are  _ not  _ alone. You have resources to hand now that you did not in the past, and as your enemies may have grown, so definitely has your selection of allies. I would counsel you to trust in us in this endeavour as you do in any martial endeavour. We all lift together, Mami. You would do well to allow us to add our strength to your cause should it prove necessary.”

Mami took a deep breath. In, and out. “You’re right. I hadn’t…considered that.”

“I would not expect you to,” Ophelia replied, crossing her arms across her impressive chest. “No one can know all things at all times, Mami. No matter how they might try. The more  _ important  _ matter was whether or not my counsel was of any aid.”

Mami nodded with a weak smile. “More than I think I can express. Thank you, Ophelia. I… I needed that.”

“Anytime,” Ophelia replied, nodding her head. “The physical world is where the simplest of battles are waged, and of little use is an ally who refuses or neglects to tender such aid during the more dire struggles waged in the mind and the heart. Were you able and were our situations reversed, I have no doubt that you would do all you could to salve my hurts as I would to salve yours, or indeed, those of any of our compatriots.”

Mami laughed aloud, and it was a cathartic thing, with little mirth but a great relief. “Who would have thought that you were so sensitive…”

Ophelia shrugged. “From each according to their ability, to each according to their need. You had the need, and I was in a position to supply the ability. There is little and less of any significance to this beyond that. Or, in your southron phrasing, you are welcome.”

“What are you even doing out here this late?”

“Dorothea and Ardrea had no need of me, and Zarya, evidently, has her hands full,” Ophelia explained. “I had thought to occupy myself for the time being. You southrons have many amusements of which we in the north are bereft, you see, and I must admit that I was curious.”

“Well, I suppose if you’re looking for something to occupy your time with…”

Ophelia smirked. “While I’m flattered, Mami, I find that giving counsel in such a fashion and more carnal delights rarely mix well together.”

“Oh… Right…” Mami sighed.

The rune fencer cocked her head. “It has been some time since I have had cause to carouse in a manner that does not include bedchambers and the surrounding upholstery. I find myself struck by the sudden inclination to indulge in such things. Instead of bedding you, then, I would suggest that perhaps you and your lover could join me for a spot of tea. We are friends first and foremost, after all, and I find it ill-omened to step between a possible lover’s quarrel. It tends to have a, shall we say,  _ distinctly negative  _ effect on unit cohesion and morale.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Mami chuckled. “Fucking Hell I’m dumb…”

“Far from it, as you seem to be both capable of speech and hearing,” the knight of Vlindrel noted.

“I don’t mean it in that—oh. You were joking…”

“Indeed,” she allowed. “Another reason why I must refuse is that if I bedded you in your current state, as you had asked, I would be remiss in my duty as your friend to keep you in more or less working order as it pertains to mind and heart. Indulging the impulsive decisions of one who is emotionally vulnerable is a faux pas for several very good reasons, that being among the greatest and most significant of the lot.”

“You know, ordinarily, I would take umbrage with that, but I don’t really have a leg to stand on in that arena, do I?”

“Correct—you are quite thoroughly paraplegic at the moment, as a matter of fact, at least as it pertains to such objections,” Ophelia confirmed. “Now, shall we dally the night away here, or shall we get on with the affairs we have just now arranged?”

Mami was about to respond, but then took a moment to look around. “I must confess that I seem to have lost my bearings in the commotion.”

“Well, where were you all last gathered?”

“The second training yard, the one with the dummies,” Mami replied, having long since learned to trust in the Vlindreli’s unerring sense of direction.

“Excellent. It appears the route you have taken is circuitous, as we are nearby there at this moment, fortunately enough. Shall we?”

“Shall you what?” Zarya asked from behind them. Mami looked around the rune fencer’s shoulder, surprised.

“Ah, Zarya. Mami here was just asking for me to escort her back to you,” the knight answered. “Hartigan, Dorothea will be visiting Cassandra’s chambers in the western tower. If you make your way there, you will either find her, or find Cassandra, who will then direct you from there. Is that acceptable?”

“Eminently so,” Casimir replied, bowing with a flourish. “Then, with that, I shall take my leave of you. And…do think about my offer, princess. I shall require a reply, whether it be yay or nay, on the morrow. Preferably sooner rather than later, I’m sure you understand.”

“Noted. And…thank you, Casimir,” Mami replied.

“Hey, what are friends for?” With that, he turned and split from them down an adjacent corridor, saluting them with a sassy wave as he retreated into the deepening dark. “See ya!”

“Um…Zarya,” Mami said, turning her attention to the Galeborn. “Ophelia offered to accompany us to have tea together, wind down, and all that. I was thinking we could go to the library and I could see about brewing us a pot?”

Zarya huffed with a wry smile. “Sure, why not? Hell, let’s just pull out that cake you’ve been saving.”

“Wh-What cake? There’s no cake. I don’t see a cake…”

“You know you’re awful at lying, yaah?” Zarya chuckled.

Mami balked. “No I’m not!”

“You really are,” Ophelia remarked.

“Hey! One of you two is supposed to be on my side!”

“We’re both on your side,” the rune fencer protested without inflection.

“Yeah, Mami. Your awful lying skills don’t make us love ya any less.” 

“Let’s just go…” Mami sighed, resigned.

“Sure thing, love,” Zarya said fondly. 

Ophelia and Zarya proceeded along the way, chatting about innocuous subjects of martial rigour that were entirely beyond Mami’s understanding, but she wasn’t particularly bothered this time. 

Because Ophelia was right. Once upon a time, it might have been only her and Homura against the world; but those times were not these. Even if worst came to worst, she knew her friends would aid her as surely and readily as she would for them. 

She just had to believe in them. And maybe, just maybe…

…Maybe, by believing in them, she could come to believe that things were going to turn out alright this time.

And maybe that would just have to be enough.

Right now, however, she had cake to eat. Now that she knew her hiding spot had been discovered, she would be damned if she let anyone get between her and her sweet, precious confectionaries.

_ Homura…I won’t fail you. I won’t leave you alone again. Not this time. _

_ I swear it.  _


	14. Misery Business

The crying of the cicadas always stirred up the glassy shards of her shattered heart, the broken, jagged pieces of herself that cut as they passed through her and carved away at the bounds of the empty cavity in her chest. The familiar melody widened it ever-larger, and once she feared that the cavern would grow so great that beneath her skin would be only emptiness, her very self rendered hollow. 

Mami no longer feared this. It was difficult, she found, to stir up the terror that she once knew so well, now that the thing that birthed it had already come to pass.

On nights like this, when the cicadas crying cut through the wooded wilds in the darkness the sun left behind, the other members of her company, her friends, knew to give her space. She loved them for it, but she hated that it was needed. She hated that her own weakness, the blackened and calcified sickness in her heart, caused her to push them away when she would have given anything to have them close, to soothe the ache. Would have given anything to have the strength to bear it.

Strength she could not summon. Strength she did not have.

Work, she found, stemmed the tide. It did not work entirely—not even close—but it was enough to allow her to keep up appearances. Not for the first time, she envied her little sister, and not for the first time, the emotional reprisal was immediate. After all, Homura did not elect to be born with strength that Mami— _ Haruhi _ —could only marvel at. Her sister did not choose to be perfect, nor could she, whether as Mami or as Haruhi, honestly say to herself that her younger sister was even remotely aware of her flawlessness. She simply  _ was,  _ just as Haruhi, Mami, simply  _ was not. _

The Black Forest was a wooded area that expanded broadly for half the distance between Bantamoor and Maelnaulde; this was the end of their third day within its bounds, and so they were nearing the centre of the antediluvian wood, camped for the night as they were in a clearing a fair enough distance from the road to throw off highwaymen but not so far that it would take them an inordinately long time to return to the road come morning. A roaring fire blazed in the makeshift hearth, made with magic so that it would burn fuel more slowly and be less likely to spread and create an incident, and its light was sufficient for her purposes as she read through one of the several grimoires she had brought along with her for the trip, for moments just like these. 

Spellcraft fascinated her, and magic came when she called as an eager hound, patiently awaiting her command; as this was her sole use to her friends in a combat situation, she bent her free time away from them towards its study. The spells that made up the broader discipline of white magic came a touch more easily—enhancing and enfeebling magic had spells that fell into one or the other broader classification, but light and healing magic were white exclusively—but that was not due to her lack of command of the other, but rather that black magic, both elemental and dark, were…surlier in attitude, and required a bit more coaxing natively. It also fascinated her how strongly the four exclusive classifications identified with certain emotions, and it frustrated her somewhat that few seemed to appreciate such subtleties. 

Why couldn’t others appreciate the beauty in the duality of dark and light magic? That dark was at once soothing and chaotic, light at once vindictive and ordered? Why bring unnecessary mysticism into the equation and debase the nuances and variances into arbitrarily clear moral boundaries? Light was good and dark was evil—why place such things that were so beautiful in their natural states into such limiting and small-minded boxes? Certainly, dark magic was terrifying, but it was the terror of freefall; light magic brought security through tyranny and domination, so what sense did it make for those who cried out for liberty to endorse light magic in practically the same breath? To Mami, it was infantile superstition, and nothing more. It didn’t stop people from talking about her as she passed, and she had no doubt she was perpetuating more than a few racial prejudices with her unbiased approach to magic, but she could not bring herself to care; in this, at least, she found a nugget of Homura’s strength within her, the strength to defy the world and tear it apart if it tried to stop her.

It was one such heretical, thus rare and difficult to obtain, text of dark magic that she pored over by the unnaturally brilliant firelight at that moment. In her hands was the  _ Ars Goetia _ , a grimoire disguised as an index of demons, but which contained an incredibly powerful dark magic spell within its aged vellum pages, aptly known as ‘Goetia’—Mami had long since accepted that on the whole, dark mages were incorrigibly cheeky and titled their encoded grimoires with names that were incredibly on the nose—that was besides the first of the five volumes of the Legemeton, all of which she had painstakingly obtained. Beside her, then, was an open volume bound in leather that she used for the transcription of notes, a quill moving autonomously as her mind worked at unearthing the book’s secrets.

Of course, it was just her luck that just as things were beginning to come together and the encryption was unravelling itself at long last, she heard the approach of footfalls that, while familiar, belonged to none of her comrades. It took her only a moment to look up and confirm that the person approaching possessed a familiar pair of mocking mauve eyes, and in that moment, she decided that concealing her irritation at the interruption would be a futile effort; Casimir would draw it out of her one way or another. It was wiser to just let it show, and spare herself the unpleasantness of Casimir’s acerbic tongue carving it free of her living flesh. “What could you  _ possibly  _ want?”

“You  _ wound  _ me,” Casimir replied without hesitation, slipping into faux-offence with ease that she had at first found disturbing, and now only tiresome. “Can a man not simply wish to grow closer to his comrades in moments of respite?”

“ _ A man  _ can. But I think we both know you are exempted from that particular title,” Mami hissed.

“Touché, I suppose…” Casimir sighed. Then his false mirth melted away, leaving a countenance that combined beauty with bitterness to beget cruelty, as he plopped down beside her, and for once Mami was grateful it was Casimir, someone who, unlike Dorothea, was at least considerate enough to not attempt to pry into the matter that had her attention. He had even avoided disturbing the drying ink of her makeshift notebook, rather pointedly at that. “If you must know, I’m curious.”

“I think we both know you’re well past the experimentation stage, Casimir,” Mami jibed. “I don’t know who you think you’re fooling.”

“Cute,” Casimir bit out. “But more specifically, if I’m going to go digging for information on this little extracurricular outing you consented to my undertaking, I’m going to need context to determine what points are salient, so that I know when I can leave.”

“Why not just stay and learn as much as you can?”

“It’s at times like these that I am reminded that there are distressingly few people aware of the finer points of infiltration,” the former guttersnipe lamented. “I am given to wonder, actually, on a separate point, whether you are similarly chagrined when others demonstrate an equally thorough ignorance of  _ your  _ art.”

“Point taken,” Mami sighed.

“And now we see why I don’t stick my neck out,” he complained. “Carve your way out of the dreg heap you’re born into, and suddenly everyone just  _ assumes  _ everything out of your mouth is a barb. Why should I bother with being genuine if everyone just assumes venom out of me regardless of what I say or do? I ask you.”

Mami recoiled slightly. “I’m… I apologise…”

“Oh, spare me. The day someone demonstrates genuine contrition for assuming the worst of me is the day the sun rises in the west and sets in the fucking east,” Casimir spat.

“You don’t exactly do much to dispel that assumption, you know,” Mami shot back.

“No, I don’t. Because I have long since given up on trying,” he replied. “You don’t survive in the gutter by stubbornly championing a lost cause. If everyone is going to assume that I’m a viper simply by virtue of the circumstances of my birth, which is most assuredly the case, then I figure that I might as well become one in truth and make the venom work for my benefit. You can only beat a mongrel so many times before biting back becomes all they know.”

“I do, for the record,” Mami ventured. “It baffles me that they can’t see what I do, that they cannot bring themselves to look upon a musty old tome full of thousands of years of accumulated knowledge of the Mystic Arts with the same wonder that wells up inside of me. The fact that they don’t even want to learn, that they’re not even  _ curious,  _ is… ‘Vexing’ is far too small a word for it. I  _ will _ apologise, regardless of what you say, for being so thoughtless that I treated your art the way others treat mine. Hypocrisy leaves a foul taste at the back of my throat.”

Casimir chuckled mirthlessly. “I guess you leave me no choice but to accept the apology, for however little that’s worth out of my mouth.”

“Will you explain it to me? Or at least, the part of it you were talking about?” Mami asked tentatively.

“What, are you going to tutor me in magic in exchange, _ princess? _ ”

“If you’re willing, I would not be opposed to it,” Mami replied. “We’d have to start with the very basics, mind, but I can teach you to command a few rudimentary spells here and there.”

“Hah. You really mean that, don’t you, princess?” Casimir remarked, bemused. “You’re way too kind, you know that? You don’t see a lot of that in the gutter. Kindness… It’s a fatal flaw there, in those destitute, hopeless places that exist everywhere you go. Being kind like you are, it too often leads to weakness, and that weakness brings forth nothing but more grief.”

“That sounds like something Homura would say,” Mami chuffed. “Right after telling me that you can only get let down so often before you have to start examining whether your expectations are unreasonable or not.”

“This Homura sounds like a very wise woman. Was she your sister?”

“She is, on both counts,” Mami admitted. “Not conventionally—she was completely hopeless at dealing with people on any kind of meaningful level—but she was strong. Determined. Sometimes she felt like an inevitability more than a person. As long as Homura was Homura, you knew that all was right with the world. There was no one else quite like her. Sometimes… Sometimes I wish I was a lot more like her.”

“This is me talking entirely out of my ass right now, but my guess is that she’d say something similar about you,” Casimir said. “I never had any siblings myself. Not like you apparently had. All my highborn sire’s other children, trueborn and bastard alike, would as soon render garters of my guts as look at me, after all. But I knew a few other urchins like me who had siblings they would gladly lay down their lives for, siblings who would just as quickly return the favour. They were always saying sappy shit about each other. Of course, my half-siblings, especially the fully highborn, were just as likely to slit each other’s throats as they were mine. If I had to take a wild guess, I’d say that siblings that have to rely on each other to make it out in one piece have the kinda bond you seem to share with your sister.”

“We didn’t grow up in the gutter like you did,” Mami dismissed. “It’s not the same.”

“I didn’t say ‘siblings in the gutter.’ Fuck knows plenty of my sire’s bastards were equally as destitute as I was, after all,” Casimir rebuked. “And relying on each other to survive doesn’t just mean working together to steal a crust of bread. That kind of relationship takes as many forms as the trouble that prompts them to form that bond does.”

“And here I was expecting you to start dressing me down for growing up posh or something like that, talking about how much worse you had it,” Mami sighed. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“People see what they want to see,” Casimir shrugged. “They couldn’t care less, by and large, to look deep enough to find  _ the  _ answer.  _ An  _ answer serves just as well in their minds.”

A homely woman’s face twisted into a gruesome rictus of fury flashed before Mami’s mind’s eye. Inadvertently, she started curling in on herself. “Yeah…”

“Will you tell me about her?”

The shock broke her out of her reverie. “What?”

“Your sister. Homura,” Casimir supplied. “You don’t have to tell me if you really don’t wanna, but I’d like to listen.”

“Was this what you were curious about?”

“In part,” the man shrugged. “An infiltration is like a noose that you slip over your head to coil around your neck. It constricts faster or slower depending on the mission, but it strangles you eventually regardless. I needed to know enough about her to know when I could leave, and slip the noose in so doing. But it’s also because I feel like you’ll feel better if you talk about her to someone who won’t immediately smother you in pity and well-wishes. Dorothea’s my friend and all, but she’ll take that and run with it and invent some wild scheme that she’s just smart enough to pull off and make it look like it took no effort. Ardrea’s joined to her girl at the hip. Cassandra’s the type to smother you in well-wishes wearing the skin of understanding as a gruesome costume, and Zarya’s just too close to you to be able to give you that kinda space you’ll need to feel how you gotta feel.”

“What about Ophelia?”

“Ophelia just scares the ever-loving fuck out of me.”

Mami laughed. “At least you’re honest.”

“For the moment,” Casimir shrugged. “Oh, and, don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. I’ve got a reputation to uphold, after all.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Mami replied as she calmed. “Let’s see… How does one begin to describe Homura…”

“Generally, one begins at the start,” Casimir jested. “In all seriousness, take your time. There’s no rush.”

“Where my sister and I grew up, in the Far East, there was a concept known as the Yamato nadeshiko, the ‘flower of feminine beauty’ according to our culture’s values. There were a large number of qualities a Yamato nadeshiko was said to have, but…for most of our lives, Homura was the perfect image of that ideal, and it was natural. Effortlessly, she had this sort of quiet strength and silent pull, this…this  _ elegance _ that made words pale and turn to ash. She wasn’t great when it came to managing people or communicating her feelings, but people were just drawn to her.

“When we were young, she was…small. Frail. Sickly. It was believed that she wouldn’t be able to live a normal life with how ill she seemed to always be, how weak her pulse was. For years, they weren’t able to find her heartbeat because it was so quiet and slight. Our parents had just about given up on her, this small child too helpless to fend for herself, her lungs too weak to allow her to master speech. But…on the sixth anniversary of her birth, she  _ bloomed.  _ My little sister, who listened to me speak to her in silence, with whom I sat and played no matter how heartbreaking it was, in those days when it seemed like I was the only one who remembered she even existed…she walked. She learned to speak, haltingly and with great hesitation at first, and when she went out into the sunlight on her own power for the first time, before either of us knew it she had a group of friends who hung onto her every slight change of intonation.”

Mami sighed. “When she bloomed, she grew. She was never very tall, and remained waifish with the passage of years, but her speech became decisive, and she grew strong in body and mind. Intellectually I know now that she kept all of her anguish and struggles confined within herself, unable as she probably was to give voice to things that she found difficult, but from the outside looking in, she was a figure of silent determination. She never gave up, and when something gave her trouble, she worked at it until it bent to her will. Her mind… It was as terrifying as it was beautiful, Homura’s mind. But though she remained short and willowy and slight throughout our adolescence, she did not let that stop her.

“I…admired her, in many ways. In some ways, I still do. Imagine, if you will, this girl, one hundred sixty centimetres in height and not a sliver more, a slip that looked like she could be blown away by a stiff wind; and then imagine watching as she found ways to make up for her lack of physical strength with frightening speed and indomitable dexterity. That’s how she approached athletics. J ūjutsu , which is hand-to-hand, kenjutsu, which is the sword, even sōjutsu, which is the spear and relatively obscure in our home, she learned with unerring discipline and relentless precision; not only did she participate in competitions, she usually  _ won  _ them. If she was not overachieving, she considered her efforts insufficient and thus worked harder. She was frightfully intelligent, and in the traditional arts she also excelled.

“We grew…distant.” Mami took a deep, shuddering breath.

“It’s okay. This must be more difficult for you than I was expecting. We can stop if you need to take a break…”

“No. No, I will continue,” Mami insisted. “When we were young, I was the older sister, and it was my job to protect her from harm. But she grew, and grew, and I found myself imprisoned in her shadow, unable to escape. Her star rose, and I remained bound to the earth. But I did not resent her. How could I? I loved her. She was my little sister, and she was so kind and understanding. She always made time for us to sit together and play games, or cook, or just dance. She always went out of her way to make sure I knew she counted me as her sister, was always there when I cried, ready to dry my tears, without judgement, always accepting and nurturing to the point where I started joking about her taking my place as the older sister. Our parents had their own lives, separate and apart from us, and though we lived in the same house, we dwelt in two separate worlds, our parents and we. In many ways…she filled the void our mother left with her distance and reservation. She was so good and so pure, so  _ selfless…  _ I knew that all I could do to protect her was to intercept the threats to which her kindness and purity blinded her. And so…that was what I did.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“What do you  _ think  _ I meant?” Mami chuckled mirthlessly. “Homura was beautiful, ethereal. Like the moon, her presence was as serene as it was remote. She drew out of us all of our ugliness, our weakness, our doubts and our sorrows, and she soothed them without ever asking for anything in return, beyond perhaps our companionship. But it was never… It was never reciprocated. I never knew what went on in Homura’s mind. I never knew what she liked, what she hated, what she dreamt of, what she feared… She was  _ my sister, _ and I didn’t know a damn thing about her. And…neither did any of her friends. But when one as strong and gentle as my sister, so fragile and yet so steadfast, exists in the world, there are always those who seek to defile that, to debase and destroy and violate. And so I made up my mind. If she was to be so unrelentingly  _ her,  _ to care for me so, and soothe my wounded heart over the slightest of woes, I would be the one who sacrificed myself in her stead. If they wished to defile, I would be defiled in her stead. If they wished to debase, I would bear that debasement with a grin for knowing that I was sparing her that. If they wished to destroy, to violate, I would be violated and destroyed instead. In her shadow I lurked, and from that shadow I would defend her.”

“Princess… I…” Casimir’s expression was not one of horror, but it was certainly pained.

“I protected my beloved little sister in the only way I could, the only way that remained to me in the darkness of her shadow. I no longer told her of my woes—how could I? Homura would have never allowed me to suffer in her place had she known, and so she could not be allowed to know, could never find out. She could not be allowed to take from me the only way that remained for me to protect her, to be the older sister she needed. Even now, the idea of her suffering while I could work to prevent it… It is unbearable. Unthinkable.” Mami dragged a hand through her raven hair, a hand that trembled and shook, unmoored and unsteady, buffeted by the torrents that raged within her. “Every sin I bore, every degradation and indignity… It was my love for her, those things, the only way I could ever give back. The only way I could fulfill my duty as an older sister to one who no longer seemed to need me, who grew more and more distant as her flame burned ever brighter.

“I suppose it was fitting, then, that it came to nothing in the end.”

“I don’t like where this is going.”

Mami looked to the night sky, blinking away the fat and pendulous unshed tears that pushed at the gates of her eyes. “You see, as the years passed, Homura only grew more beautiful, to the point where our father came to desire her. His desire grew and grew, until one night, he moved to violate my sister.  _ His own daughter.  _ I was not strong like Homura, so all I could do… The only thing I could do was ensure that if he had to violate a daughter, it would not be her. And so I bore the cruelty of others that she might be spared it. That, of course, all came crumbling down when our mother found our father on top of me, rutting away and grunting like a beast as I bit down on my lip so hard it bled so that Homura wouldn’t have to see it, wouldn’t have to hear it, would not be awoken by it and could remain ignorant to the evils of the world around us.

“Predictably, she freaked out. But did she blame the man who pinned me down and took me so that he would not take my sister? No.  _ Clearly  _ I had  _ seduced  _ him. I had a record of this, after all—she only had to ask around a little and all those deeds I had done to spare Homura came forth like a tsunami. Destitute, I was cast out of my home with only the shirt on my back, a pariah in my town as word got around. ‘Oh, the whore,’ they would say, ‘so depraved and evil that she tricked her own father into sleeping with her.’” Her breath was unsteady, coming faster as she remembered the jeering, the leers, the  _ scorn  _ from people she had known all her life, turned on her in an instant, but she had come too far now. She could not turn back, she could not be so weak.  _ Homura  _ would never be so weak. Never so weak as her. “Predictably, I could no longer shelter Homura. I was not allowed near her. So I drifted. My life’s purpose had been stripped from me—what, then, remained?

“Thankfully, one of the men who desired my sister took pity on me and took me in. He and his girlfriend were…kinder than I had expected, or at least, kinder than the rest. I lived with them for a while, and helped them earn money by letting them sell me. I had nothing to lose, after all. But… Homura found me. I’m not sure how, but she did. She started leaving my favourite foods at my doorstep, and wherever I went, wherever the couple and I moved, she always found us within a few days, leaving food and music and all the things we used to love to share together.” Mami shook her head, hoping to dispel the despair that was coiling around her tongue, constricting it and her voice to the point where it was beginning to frustrate her efforts. “And then I fell pregnant.”

“Princess…”

“ _ Please, _ Casimir,” Mami pleaded breathlessly.

Casimir sighed, gesturing airily in exasperation. “Fine. Continue.” 

“…When we confirmed that I was quick, it was like a switch flipped. Kindness…became nothing but a burning memory…” Mami continued haltingly.

“Jealousy?”

“Nothing of the sort. If I had to characterise what Tokio felt, I guess it’d be joy. She seemed genuinely pleased that I was with child, and the…the cruelty… She did it with words of love. They both did, Tokio and Arata, though Tokio was clearly in the lead. They put needles in me, made my head fuzzy… Made me forget…

“Until one morning I could not remember her face. I could have walked past her on the street and have never recognised my own sister. I was…everywhere at the end of time, caught in a blur that even now haunts my nightmares and creeps into the waking world every now and again. I…I don’t know…” Mami opened her mouth to speak further, but only a harsh, harrowing croak came from her throat, and she could not speak another word.

The cover of the grimoire was pried out of her fingers, and though she could not speak, she continued to attempt to voice a protest. Casimir’s voice, chiding gently, though under some strain, came forth. “It will be here in the morning. Right now, you’re in no state to study. Don’t worry. I won’t leave you alone. Just close your eyes and try to sleep, alright?”

Mami struggled a little, but then nodded feebly when Casimir’s arms began to encircle her, awkward and hesitant, but determined and sure, pulling her against his chest and cradling her head a touch awkwardly, one of her horns pressed flush against the steady beating of his heart. Then came his voice anew, melodic and soothing, and it took her a moment to realise that Casimir was  _ singing  _ to her. 

_Dún do shúil, a rún mo chroí,_ _  
__A chuid den tsaol, ‘s a ghrá liom;_

_ Dún do shúil, a rún mo chroí,  _

_ Agus gheobhair feirín amárach… _

She did not know the language, but something in her quieted at its sound, and slightly, ever so slightly, piece by piece, parts of her slipped into dreamless sleep. 

_ Tá do dheaid ag teacht gan mhoill ón chnoc _

_ Agus cearca fraoich ar láimh leis;  _

_ Agus codlaidh go ciúin ‘do luí sa choid _

_ Agus gheobhair feirín amárach… _

The last complete thought that passed through her mind that night was,  _ I don’t think I’ll mock him for this one in the morning…  _

* * *

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

Zarya. The only possible snarl in this little act of uncharacteristic goodwill. Well, at least as far as everyone else was concerned.

Casimir lifted his gaze away from the flickering of the flames, and let out a small sigh of relief when he saw the expression on the Galeborn’s face. The Galeborn of the Maelstrom in centuries past had been known as ruthless pirates, the most feared and bloodthirsty reavers on the seas, and that kind of ancestral fury was far from the kind of trouble Casimir was willing to draw to himself. “I fail to grasp the insinuation.”

“Like fuck you do,” Zarya chuckled softly. “Knew you had a heart, Mirri.”

Casimir could not resist rolling his eyes, wincing at the flash of irritation the childish nickname sent shooting through him. “Please, don’t. I get enough of the endless diminutives from Dorothea.”

“Can’t help but notice you didn’t deny what I said.”

“Why would I? It’s true,” Casimir replied, shrugging as much as he dared with the drahn’s head resting against his pectorals, her horn pressing up to his ribs provoking mildly moderate discomfort. “Like I told your lover, I always had one. But everyone seemed to decide that since I was a guttersnipe born and raised, I simply had to be a cold-blooded little snake. And I eventually got tired of correcting them.”

Zarya chuckled again, still soft, but mirthless. “You know, I think I know how you feel.”

“Really.”

“Yup,” she said, popping the p. “Tell you the truth, you remind me a lot of myself from when I first left the Maelstrom a while back.”

“Define ‘a while.’”

“Do you know how old I am?”

“Haven’t the faintest,” Casimir replied truthfully. “If I had to guess by hume metrics, you’d be in your mid to late twenties.”

“Hah. Around there, I guess, in relative terms,” she remarked, plopping herself down next to where Casimir and Mami were nestled together with a quiet thud. “Let’s see…I reached about four hundred twenty-three before I stopped counting. Didn’t seem to make much sense to continue past that point.”

“…What…?”

“ _ Okay, _ I lied, I  _ have _ kept track. Six hundred thirty-three this year,” Zarya sighed.

“You’re joking.”

“Not particularly,” she shrugged. “Galeborn as a species don’t age past around twenty-four- _ ish _ , and we don’t die unless we’re killed. Comes with the territory of being a magic fish person under the protection of an ancient grelk.”

“…I have  _ so many  _ questions…”

“I’m sure ya do. None of ‘em are particularly relevant right now, but hold ‘em and I’ll go ahead and answer you at a later date,” Zarya rebuffed. “But yeah. I left when I was one hundred thirteen years old, and I was a little shit with a mountain-sized chip on my shoulder. Worse than you, actually, and by quite a fair distance—I was  _ unironically  _ what you pretend to be, caring for no one and nothing beyond myself and my own gratification. I sought thrills at the expense of everyone around me, got off on twisting and warping people until they wrung themselves dry, and though I laughed and laughed and laughed, I never… _ felt.  _ Not truly.”

“What changed?”

“What changed, indeed…” she mused, looking up at the stars. “I guess things started changing when I found someone, really. Or, perhaps more accurately,  _ she  _ found  _ me. _ ”

“Old flame?” Casimir prompted, curious.

“ _ Hardly, _ ” Zarya snorted. “Mami here’s the only one for me. The person I’m talking about, I never bedded her, not even once. She wasn’t up for it, and it really wasn’t that kind of relationship besides. The person I found…there’s no one quite like her. Never was, never likely to be. One of a kind. I went to her looking for her blood, was gonna nick it and shuffle off into the sunset, maybe mooch for a while. Of course, the reality was…far more complicated than that.”

“So a heist went wrong?”

“In a sense. She knew what I wanted right away, actually. She was willing to give it to me, even, but she wasn’t about to condone being irresponsible with it. So she taught me how to use it, and several other things. I stuck with her for a while, a few centuries or so—I started making a game out of how abrasive I could be before she finally snapped, but she never did. Whenever I got up to shit, she would just give me that same indulgent smile. It pissed me the fuck off for the longest time, ‘cuz I thought she thought she was better than me. But eventually, it occurred to me that it wasn’t that she thought she was better than me, but rather that she thought I was better than I thought I was.”

“I’m sure you’ve had that experience before,” Casimir protested. Surely it couldn’t be that simple.

“I had, yeah, but usually when I burned them enough times, they got wise. This girl, she wasn’t naive. Not like that. She had this way about her, this pull, that made you want to see things her way. It was subtle, because she didn’t know she had it, but eventually, like everyone else, I started wanting to live up to her expectations. She saw more than the cold-hearted con artist, and I started wanting to look in the mirror in the morning and  _ see  _ that same more in myself that she saw. She gave me a chance, a shot to be better than I was, and gave me the benefit of the doubt that it was within my reach to be that, even when I didn’t. And so, eventually, it clicked.”

“What happened?”

“I proved to myself I was more than I had been, and then went back to the Maelstrom to start laying down the law. I took the seat of Queen of the Gales, eradicated the institution of the Free Captains that once governed my homeland, and reformed the state religion in a big way,” Zarya stated. “Right now, I have a friend of mine warming the seat for me, but eventually I’m gonna ask Mami to come with me back to the Maelstrom. Not now, of course—she needs time before she’ll be ready for something like that—but I had a duty to my people, and I still do.” She shook her head. “But it all started with that, Casimir. With someone who was willing to look at an avowed and unrepentant scoundrel and see something worth believing in. Who was willing to give me a chance to figure out for myself what my best self looked like, and to support me every step of the way as I reached for that, until I eventually held it in my hands.

“People say the scorn of others should be enough to tell you when you’ve done wrong, but in my experience, it’s kind of the opposite. It’s much easier to be comfortable with all of the horrible things you’ve done when you’re feared, distrusted, and hated for it. It wasn’t until I met her, and she treated me with kindness and forgiveness, truly and freely, that I started to wonder if I had anything to repent for. So, again, I get where you’re coming from. People are terrified of you and they despise you, you and what you represent, so it’s easy to be cutting and underhanded and petty. It’s easy to be vicious when people are being vicious to you. And to tell you the truth, you’re handling being in this phase of your life a fuck of a lot better than I did when it happened to me. I don’t have my friend’s eye for talent or goodness, I’ll admit that. But I’m  _ certain  _ she’d see great things in you. All you really need, Casimir, is someone willing to have your back as you reach for those stars.”

“…I’ll keep that in mind, I suppose,” Casimir replied warily.

“All I can really ask for,” Zarya chuckled. Then she stood, the dirt sliding off of the garments of layered bright blue and earthen brown seasilk with which she clothed herself, before clapping him on the shoulder. “Good talk.”

“Aren’t you gonna get on my case about sleeping with your girl?”

“Nah. Maelstrom culture is pretty heavily weighted towards polyamory, and even if that wasn’t the case, neither of you swing that way, so it’s double cool, yaah?”

“You’re no fun…” Casimir faux-sulked.

“I’m  _ oodles  _ of fun, Mirri. You can’t  _ handle  _ the amount of fun that I live and breathe,” Zarya jibed right back. “And besides, I don’t wanna have her moved, certainly not on my account. She needs the rest.”

“I’m…not sure how to respond to that,” he said truthfully.

“Good. Then you can shut up and keep being my girl’s pillow for the night. Not that you would be nearly as good at that as me, given…” She gestured to the moderate-to-considerable swell of her chest underneath her bright blue seasilk blouse and brown vest layered to look like leather. “But it’s my turn to take watch anyway, so I can’t really do that myself.”

“As you will…” Casimir sighed. He watched Zarya as her frame retreated some distance away to the vantage point, and watched as Ardrea moved back through the camp, now relieved.

The conversation he had just had with Zarya was one he was trying to turn over in his head, a many-faceted and unexpectedly heavy thing for being so compact in a shell of innocuity. She was telling the truth on some of the salient points, specifically her age—the Galeborn were rarely seen outside of the Maelstrom since just after the end of the Great War, and so little and less about them was known in terms of how they functioned and aged; not to mention knowledge of their culture was sparse, mostly relating to their worship of a marine deity of some design by the name of Baaliqath, the Beast of Brine and Bone. Predictably, such knowledge was kept, twisted and disseminated by a number of religious authorities throughout history, framing them as reaving heretics making profane pacts to ill ends, but the fact remained that it was entirely possible she was indeed over six centuries old.

But more importantly, her speech was pointed, seemingly specifically at him.

Which begged the question—did she have a point? Was it possible that he could one day be seen as more than a lowborn upstart, a cutthroat and a rogue masquerading in fine clothes? Was it  _ that  _ simple? A friend to believe in him…was that really all he needed?

He shook his head a moment later. No. It was an idle fancy, nothing more. Casimir Hartigan, as far as the highborn and the well-to-do were concerned, was a snake in the grass, an adder poised to close around their ankles to their doom that lurked in the shadows, and that was all he would ever be.

Though he certainly wished it were otherwise.

What he wouldn’t give to have the opportunity to seize such a halcyon dream.

_ It’d be nice, I think, to have a true friend…  _

* * *

If Mami had to choose a word to describe the Principality of Maelnaulde as they approached the grandiose stone gates, it would be “massive.” 

Everything about the city was gargantuan. The walls seemed to stretch halfway to the heavens, and the blocks of stone from which they were built were each the height of three Ophelias, stacked one atop the other. It was a marvel of engineering that in itself would have seemed worthy of what was once the largest city on the continent, every block humming with magical power to the degree where from even half a kilometre away it was like being in the orchestra pit of an opera house mid-performance. But even it was dwarfed by the glittering spire of the Silvern Basilica, which towered over the top of the walls and seemed to pierce the heavens at its highest point, a beacon that could be seen for dozens of kilometres in any direction upon approach. The entire structure was antediluvian and seemed wrought from argent metal, while to Mami’s eyes, the majority of the glare did not originate from the sun. The structure was so incomprehensibly massive and ancient that the aura of magic it had accumulated over time was more blinding than the sun itself, stark white and obviously divine in nature. No structure assembled by mortal hands, no matter how old or how grand, shone with quite that level of thaumaturgical purity. 

At half a kilometre away, already the city walls seemed to extend without end in both directions, and though she knew the walls circled the city, the fact that they appeared to conform to a straight line to all but the most specific of scrutiny gave her an idea of just how large of an area was contained within its bounds. The sheer scale of the settlement itself boggled her mind, let alone how one ruler might see to it that all the people who surely lived there were even  _ fed. _

The throng of people coming into the city gates was immense and densely compacted, and given the fact that Maelnaulde’s elite Knights of the Order of the Crown was out in force, the silvered steel and enameled adamantite of the regulars and the preening scions of noble houses bounding along on raptors of varying prestige with regards to pedigree in parallel with the road, Mami felt it was safe to say that neither the Principality nor its people were used to being such a nexus of activity in the current day and age. The day itself was partly cloudy, and the sun on high beamed down on the travellers even as the cloud cover slid over and masked its invasive gaze every so often. The chattering all was up to a dull roar, and Mami was starting to struggle to deal with the overwhelming sensory input with which her horns were being bombarded by the time a special detachment of women, oddly enough, in strange white armoured garb edged with a mixture of jet and gold, led by a svelte elven boy caught firmly in the midst of the latter half of his adolescence, cut through the preening princoxes that held themselves with an air of undeserving authority, and stopped when they spotted Dorothea and their company.

“Ho there! Hail and well-met, Warriors of Light!” called the auburn-haired and gentle-featured boy, a raised fist clad in mail drawing his raptor riders up short. “My master, Dame Rienna, wishes to extend her utmost regrets that she could not afford to come escort you personally. If you shall forgive the insult, I am here in her stead. You may know me as Estinien, and I have the high honour of being Dame Rienna’s faithful squire.”

“Greetings, Squire Estinien. I am Dorothea, leader of the Warriors of Light, and these are my compatriots. May I present Ardrea of Zanthe, my paramour; Ser Ophelia, Knight of Vlindrel; Zarya Castracani, formerly of the Maelstrom; Mami of the Threefold Tomoe, noted healer and adherent to the Way of the White; and finally, the Grand Champion of the Burning Colosseum, Casimir Hartigan of Bantamoor,” Dorothea supplied easily, slipping from surprise into diplomacy with all the ease of a serpent shedding its skin.

“Well-received, all of you. And of course, congratulations on your new title, Messere Hartigan. Though we do not indulge in gladiatorial combat as a state, there are those in Maelnaulde who were quite…enthusiastic as it relates to you besting Leander Scylding on the blood-sands,” Estinien remarked with an awkward bow that went as low as it could while astride the raptor without tumbling off of the saddle to the ground. It was almost endearing. “Her Grace and Maelnaulde’s Radiant Sovereign Prince Mercédès bade me sally forth in such a manner that you might be conveyed directly to the Silvern Basilica so that she might receive you with all honours due such illustrious adventurers. To that end, my comrades shall bear you aloft and get you all hence. Swiftly now, if you will—one does not keep Her Grace waiting unduly.”

Mami did not fail to notice how the other entourages of Crown Knights muttered and grumbled amongst themselves as the six of them mounted the raptors, sitting behind Estinien’s soldiers on the large saddles, so she knew for a fact that neither did Dorothea. Tales of the heavily and exhaustively stratified society of Maelnaulde did not seem to be exaggerated, but the power of the prince seemed to have been grossly understated—or perhaps it was merely this particular prince who was so influential that despite the incensed grumbling of the obvious nobles within earshot and watching, not a one raised even a shadow of an objection to the situation openly. She could only surmise from this situation as it continued to unfold that the word of Prince Mercédès was holy writ.

The riders were silent as the grave as they checked to ensure that the six companions were properly secured, the five-limbed cross bracelets immediately catching Mami’s eye with how they passively radiated holy magic, and when the sentinels looked back up at Estinien, the squire took that as confirmation, executing a series of hand signals that had the detachment whirling around and spurring their raptors towards and through the city gates.

The cobblestone streets of Maelnaulde were bustling and busy, but at the cries of approaching raptors, the civilians going about their business dashed to gain way, while the procession didn’t even slow as it tore through square after square. The Bodice, as the district was called—Maelnaulde was divided into four major districts, with commerce in the Bodice, the upper crust in the Corset, the lower strata in the sprawling expanse of the Rouge, and finally the offices of government in the Coronet, a district dominated by the Silvern Basilica and its satellite buildings—was itself the size of a city, recorded at some seventy square kilometres, and as the third largest of the four, given that the only people who lived there were those with shops and guilds to exercise their trades within and without the means to demand land or grounds individually, to see it with that knowledge and pass through it even as a blur contextualised the true extremity of the scale in a way that boggled her mind.

Before too much longer, perhaps two and a half hours’ worth of a steadily rapid pace, they drew up to the gates of the Coronet, an area under heavy guard and recorded as being restricted to just shy of invitation-only; yet the Crown Knights at the gate scarpered to let them pass unmolested at the sight of the white-and-jet- or white-and-gold-clad riders, and they swept through into what, to Mami’s eyes, looked almost like another city entirely. They had gone from a bustling urban settlement to what appeared for all the world to be the grounds of a monastery, sacred and sepulchral and humming with light magic, excited and seeming to almost spark from one surface to the next; and through its streets walked vaguely feminine figures of varying heights clad in white-and-red robes that looked almost like habits, the younger ones wearing silver chain bracelets with the charm of a three-limbed cross, and the older ones bearing a more conventional four-limbed version.

Drawing up to a commons area, the raptors were brought to a halt, as the silent sentinels dismounted from their saddles and unceremoniously aided the six Warriors of Light from their adopted perches to touch their feet to the ground. Estinien walked to stand before them again, giving a more proper bow at the waist with a flourish. “On the behalf of our Most Hallowed Sovereign, Prince Mercédès the First of House Lucerne, I bid you welcome to the Coronet. In a few moments, we will proceed to the Silvern Basilica, and you will be in the presence of Her Grace and His Excellency, the Grand Duke of Rosenfaire. For your own safety, I must ask that each of you observe all proper courtesies in the presence of Her Grace, His Excellency, and His Excellency’s esteemed sister. The nephilim may be women of few words, but they do not tolerate insolence in Her Grace’s court, doubly so with regards to rudeness to esteemed guests of Her Grace, and it is for this reason that I see the wisdom in warning you beforehand. To be blunt, the last thing the Principality needs is an international incident because one or more of the delegates failed to hold their tongue. Be advised, however, that this admonition is by no means unique to you, and it is indeed being given to other troupes of delegates at this very point before their own audiences with Her Grace. Now, do you all understand, or would you like me to repeat myself?”

Dorothea’s mouth began to open, but Ophelia smoothly cut in before their fatally clever leader had the opportunity to voice her thoughts.“I believe we are all well-apprised of how we are expected to comport ourselves within the walls of the Basilica, thank you.”

Mami shot Ophelia a look of gratitude while Dorothea did her best not to look put out by having her ‘fun’ ruined. The white mage pointedly ignored the fact that she could feel Zarya behind her struggling not to laugh, and redirected her attention directly at the youthful squire as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Excellent. Then without further ado, we shall proceed. If you all would be so kind as to follow me…”

Mami, Ardrea, Ophelia, and Zarya followed right on Squire Estinien’s heels, while Dorothea and Casimir hung back slightly, speaking in hushed yet harsh tones; the white mage did her level best to ignore it, focusing instead on how the nephilim group that had escorted them thus far seemed to disperse, pairing up and going their separate ways—Mami counted eight such pairs as they ascended the immaculate white stone steps before the doors of the Silvern Basilica loomed large in their path.

Walking through the front door of the impossibly large divine construct of a building, she was taken aback by the size and sheer, almost eldritch, scale of the interior of the structure. As large as the Basilica was on the exterior, it was  _ many times larger  _ within, to where the ceiling seemed to not even exist, shrouded in darkness beyond the limits of how far her eyes could see in a straight line. The windows were the size of buildings, the average one around six to eight stories high of stained glass arranged in an artistic fashion that was more realistic than she had thought would be possible given the medium, and though the sunlight shone through them freely and fully, the interior was still far too well-lit throughout to be illuminated naturally, and given the noticeable lack of torches, Mami could only assume that more subtle magic was involved, subtle magic that was noticeably drowned out by the roaring hum of the vast quantities of mana leaking freely from the walls of the ancient palace. And the corridors, well-lit though they were, seemed to similarly disappear just beyond her sight, despite the fact that she knew with absolute certainty that the exterior of the Silvern Basilica, massive though it was, did not extend for nearly that long in terms of base length and width.

There was little sense of time within the Basilica’s walls, and it could have been seconds just as easily as it could have been half an hour’s walk before they reached the double doors of the audience chamber, great wooden things that were formed in such a way that they looked to almost be part of a living growth. Then Estinien pressed his hand against the doors, and they swung open to reveal a chamber that could probably have mustered an army with quite a bit of space left over for some of the supplies. It was not so much the distance from the doors to the dais—considerable though it admittedly was—as it was the fact that the room  _ felt  _ that large, and more importantly, sounded like it, given how every sound seemed to echo endlessly throughout the space. The throne upon the dais seemed much larger and more grandiose than warranted—a taller woman could sit upon it and have her feet flat on the ground, of course, but it was still a ludicrous size for a structure that seemed to have been carved by a master artisan from a single massive pearl, leading Mami to wonder idly on what manner of mollusc could produce a pearl quite that large, not to mention the preternatural skill required of any artisan to be able to render so perfectly such a chair from such a material.

On one side of the throne stood a tall, muscled woman in plainclothes with short black hair, strong features, and piercing maroon eyes, while on the other stood a very different sort of person, a tall and lean man—an almost offensively pretty one at that—with an inimitable head of long violet hair, pulled back on one side and sweeping forth to frame his face with luxurious bangs on the other. His upturned eyes with their long, full lashes matched his hair exactly, and his suit of gold-accented ceremonial plate armour adopted the same hue; the livid scarlet of the rose he had pinned to his pauldron broke up the almost obnoxious parade of purple, and thus drew attention to it naturally as the eye slid to the single point of major contrast. While the woman on the left side of the throne when facing it kept her mouth in a solemn line, her eyes seemed to dance with mirth; the opposite could be said of the man on the right side, who smiled gregariously enough, but whose eyes might as well have been the gemstones they so resembled.

Before the dais and facing the doors, and thus the Warriors of Light as they approached, was a party of five that in one way or another bore the livery of Rosenfaire. That their number was five indicated strongly that they were, like Mami and her comrades, adventurers; yet, the city from which they seemed to hail did not have an adventuring company to sponsor, as it went against the charter of the associated guild. These, then, were indeed not at all adventurers, but must instead have been the five members of the Stormcrows, the personal guard of the Grand Duke of Rosenfaire.

The Stormcrows were an odd bunch, and if Mami had to choose, she would have picked out the athletic male with vibrant, fiery red hair in an effortlessly messy style that looked tousled and deceptively calm hazel eyes to be the leader, given his open confidence and gregarious grin that, like the violet man, concealed hidden depths; second on her list would have been the much colder girl, equally as athletic, with large green eyes and blonde hair styled into a chin-length bob cut. It took her a moment to notice the much shorter lavender-haired girl, slight and small in height and build, mousey in stature and so mild in presence that she seemed almost about to blend into the background, but once she did, Mami did not miss the fact that those iron-grey eyes of hers did not dart so quickly out of simple nerves, but rather fixed themselves on each of the Warriors of Light, as though preemptively targeting them.

The remaining two were complete mysteries to Mami, not because she could not read anything from them, but because she honestly could not tell how much, if anything, she read from them was real. Crimson hair and eyes characterised the first, a woman of indeterminable age with an air of overt inscrutability and mischief, garbed in a crimson-and-yellow raiment that was loud and confrontational in its eccentricity, most notably the knee-high high-heeled boots with long tips that curled upwards and the high-collared red cloak that cascaded down to just above her ankles. Her hair was pinned up at the top of her head in a tail, but that did not seem to remotely dispel the very y ō kai-esque aura that radiated from her with her almost Cheshire grin that Mami would not be surprised if she were to learn was permanently plastered on. The other’s hair was black as night, pinned lower near the nape of her neck and hanging over a slim shoulder, much leaner in build than the blonde woman, the only one of the four females of comparable height, with bright, almost feral hazel eyes that, together with her frame and bearing, lent her a dark, lupine sort of menacing appeal.

Then, the one she had been avoiding regarding drew her eye, and as though against her will, she found herself staring at the reclined posture of one who could only be the prince.

Since awakening in this world of strange sorcery-based anachronisms and ancient unspoken secrets that she was still trying to unravel even now, Mami of the Threefold Tomoe had seen quite a few people dressed in what looked like authentic clothing from the medieval period in the west—which was fitting, she supposed, given much of the technology ordinary people native to this world relied upon in their day to day lives—but this was new. Never before had anyone she had seen, regardless of gender or sex, worn such a costume so effortlessly as Her Grace, Mercédès Charlotte Lucerne, Prince of Maelnaulde.

Of a shade with Mami’s own, her raven hair was bound in a thick, somewhat loose, low braid that pooled slightly in her lap, where one leg was crossed over the other beneath her thin but not sheer skirts, while her glimmering golden eyes that seemed to shine with their own inner light pinned Mami to the spot as she met them. Her dress, which concealed almost every visible centimetre below the moderately suggestive neckline, was royal blue and jet black, accented with copious threads of spun gold filigree, and her neck was enclosed in an artfully delicate silver collar that embraced a large scarlet gem that swirled with magic. And her face…Mami was not fooled by that gentle, softly smiling, pious visage, not for even a fraction of an instant. 

“Greetings, Warriors of Light. I bid you feel welcome in these halls,” the prince called forth, her eyes dancing with something Mami could not pin down long enough to definitively identify as she nodded her head slightly in acknowledgement. “It is likely that you are all aware of who I am, but for courtesy’s sake, I shall say that I am Mercédès Lucerne, and I have been blessed with the honour of serving the Principality of Maelnaulde as their immaculate sovereign. And may I present Dame Rienna tol Ciencia, beloved mother and peerless knight, together with Lucien Hauteclaire Galatyn of the Heirs of Zilart, Grand Duke of Rosenfaire.”

The austere yet beautiful woman in plainclothes, Dame Rienna, nodded, while the man on the opposite side of the throne stepped forth and gave a bow appropriate to the social disparity between himself and the adventurers Mami called friends. “Thank you, Your Grace. By your leave should I like to introduce the members of my guard.”

“You have it,” said the prince, her voice light with mirth as she offered forth her hand.

“You have my gratitude,” said the Grand Duke, standing before the prince a few steps down and bowing much lower, taking her hand and pressing a chaste, reverent, and solemn kiss to her knuckles. Then he rose and turned to regard the adventurers, indicating his troupe of guards with a flourish. “Now then, to the illustrious Warriors of Light whose deeds defy the telling and whose reputation precedes them, shall I present Rosenfaire’s own Stormcrows.”

Up first came the eccentric woman in red and yellow, stepping forth jauntily and with an air of dance in her gait. Her bow was so exaggerated it bordered on mockery, and when she spoke, it was sweet like honey, but beneath it was a razor’s edge of what Mami would hazard to call ‘madness’, and as she rose and winked with a giggle, propping her index finger at the edge of her smugly smirking lips, the entire image was less cute and more profoundly disturbing. “Greetings, o Warriors of Light. I am called Krile, She of the Radiant Raiment. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m sure we’ll all be the very best of friends!”

“You really don’t need to be talking their ears off, Krile,” came the words of the young woman with inky blue-black hair and the surly expression into which her face seemed permanently set. She stepped forth, the tails of her shin-length high-collared black coat, belted around her waist and carrying two daggers, flowing like a living shadow and obscuring her frame, aided by her long, grey-and-black striped scarf. Her firm black boots were flat on the ground, and each step she took was solid and sure as she raised one of her dextrous hands clad in fingerless gloves to brush a fringe of black hair out of her eyes, using the other to indicate herself with a thumb. “Name’s Rydia. I’m a swordsman. So is Krile, but she didn’t seem to think it was particularly relevant to inform you of this. The blonde and the redheaded pain in my ass, that is Aranea and Gareth here, are great with spears and lances, while Junna is a crack-shot with a bow. And despite appearances, Gareth, Krile, and I are the only ones who are really any good with magic.”

“Specifically black magic for Rydia and myself,” said the redhead, Gareth, who seemed all the more intimidating in his well-fitting black armour, making his easy and gregarious swagger as he stepped forth seem to resonate with inner darkness and overt deception. “Krile just kinda does whatever.”

The woman so named shrugged her shoulders with a muffled giggle. “I’ll heal you if you’re lucky, and annihilate your enemies if they’re not!”

“Yes, thank you all for speaking for the group,” Aranea interjected, her voice one of those ones that seemed able to switch from kind to strict and back again on a gil. The blonde woman sighed. “As you’ve been no doubt told, I’m Aranea of the Stormcrows. I’m also our only flier, given that I got my start in Rosenfaire’s own Falcon Knights. I’m also decent enough with a lance on the back of a pegasus.”

“What she’s not telling you is the fact that her nickname in the Falcon Knights was the Savage Valkyrie,” Gareth remarked with a wry twist to his mouth.

“I think we’ve been quite unorthodox enough with introductions without stating our service records, don’t you,  _ Death’s Own? _ ” Aranea shot back, her tone cutting.

“Fair enough,” Gareth said with a nod. “And our last member here is Junna.”

The last woman stepped forth, brushing her long, thick lavender hair back, and when she spoke, her voice was soft, but it was strong and wrought from the iron her eyes resembled. “Yes, I’m Junna. I might not be very good with magic or flying or swordplay, but I’ve never missed a shot in my entire career. I very much intend to maintain that record.”

“With that, I would have you all know and keep in mind moving forward that only those herein assembled have the authority to move into and out of the Basilica freely. So if, during your stay, anyone who is not currently in this room comes to retrieve you, you should be aware that they did not do so by my command, and thus should be treated with extreme caution. With the influx of travellers here to witness the festivities, there are certain to be a large variety of unsavoury sorts milling about,” explained the prince with an indulgent smile. “Now, once again, we here welcome you to our fair city, and we trust that with your illustrious reputation, you will act unerringly with dignity and grace while within our walls. The Stormcrows are here to be introduced to you as they shall not be participating in the tourney, and instead shall be directing all persons of import to wherever they desire or feel the need to go—within reason, of course. At this moment, however, they shall escort you safely to lodgings that have been secured for the duration of your visit, as I am certain you five must be quite eager to find adequate creature comforts within reach once more, and to rest your travel-weary heads. The tourney shall be in four days’ time, and so I wish you all the best of luck, and that the odds may ever be in your favour.”

_ Wait… Five?! _

Mami looked around, and caught a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach the moment she realised their unofficial sixth member, Casimir, was nowhere to be found. She turned her head to Dorothea, who looked at her with an expression that, to anyone who didn’t live in close proximity to her day in and day out, would look like proof that she had no idea what was going on; yet, Mami could see the slightly calculating glint in her eye, and knew that something incredibly dumb had just occurred, and if it went wrong, they were all going to be paying for it.

“The Stormcrows and myself, I’m afraid,” the Grand Duke interjected, pressing a hand to his breastplate and bowing at the waist to the woman on the pearl throne. “My apologies, Your Grace, for while I certainly find your presence agreeable and your conversation stimulating, I find that the strain of travel lingers still. The travails of travelling such a distance, I’m afraid—the act thereof is a trial unlike any other, especially taken at such a pace as we did.”

“You need not explain yourself further, my dear friend,” the prince replied, the very image of divine grace to the point where Mami felt nauseous bearing witness to it. “You have my leave to see yourself abed. I am certain the Stormcrows would not mind an extra stop on their route for the sake of guarding their liege lord, would you not agree?”

“My thanks, Your Grace,” the foreign sovereign said, rising from his bow and turning in a stately fashion to wave his guards to his side; then, the six began to proceed out of the doors of the audience chamber, sweeping up the Warriors of Light into their entourage, and as the Silvern Basilica’s throne room was shuttered from her sight, Mami could have sworn she spotted the prince winking at her and blowing a kiss. She shook her head. 

_ Must have been my imagination. _

* * *

“What was that about?”

Mercédès, Charlotte to her family, chuckled softly as she reclined into her surprisingly comfortable chair, not moving her eyes for even a moment as she waited for her friend to present herself in her sight. The prince, after all, did not look for people; people endeavoured to be seen by the prince—and even when it was only the two of them, given that if she was choosing to approach, Mother must have begged off, the habit was all but impossible to break. Not that she was especially inclined to attempt it, of course. Only her family got that out of her. “My dear, whatever makes you think it had to be about  _ anything? _ ”

“Because I  _ know  _ you,  _ Your Grace, _ ” came the high, sickly sweet voice of her ‘intended,’ Jeanne Evalach Galatyn, Duchess and Heiress Presumptive to Rosenfaire, as she was known to the mortals for whose benefit it behooved them to maintain the illusion that concealed the truth of their nature. “You and your sister both, you’re always plotting something—even when you’re not actually plotting anything, in her case. Whatever it is, I want in, so spill.”

This time, Charlotte did move to regard the younger woman, her Rose Bride. Like her elder brother, her hair was violet and cascaded in a straight wave down her back when left loose, which was obvious even though she secured it up in a pair of twin-tails with small ribbons that were rendered invisible with how they were buried in the binding, though she did not share his eyes. Instead, hers were a deep emerald, a direct contrast and a bit of playful ribbing between the two siblings. Charlotte looked her up and down in open suggestion, and saw, as expected, that while above the waist, Jeanne was observing all the proper courtly rules of fashion, her skirts were incredibly short, exposing the expanse of milky thigh that she was all too comfortable flaunting with her peculiar breed of irreverence and flippancy.

It was hardly becoming of an archangel for her to dress that way, she knew; yet, neither Charlotte nor Jeanne were particularly predisposed to caring on that score. She leaned forward, and gently took Jeanne’s chin in her grasp, lifting her face until their eyes met, and she could see the moisture beading up in the younger woman’s sockets.

“I am certain I have  _ no  _ idea what you’re talking about,” Charlotte enunciated, crisp and clear, utterly unmistakable; then, she retracted her hand and placed her fingers on Jeanne’s forehead, pushing her back a few steps.

“Fine, then. Keep your secrets,” she sighed, though neither of them believed for a moment that Jeanne’s troublesome curiosity was satisfied, and they both knew it. Operational security, however, was something they both understood, and which was very much germane to the current circumstances, even if she could not safely divulge how—partly because she truly did not know, and that was entirely by design. “More importantly, did you see who they were with?”

“I did,” allowed the prince as she settled back once more, fully at rest.

“…And?”

“No news.”

From how Jeanne’s expression changed, she obviously caught the sobriety in Charlotte’s tone. Not that Charlotte had any reasonable expectation that she wouldn’t, of course, and would have been genuinely surprised had that come to pass. “What are we going to do, then? Something has to break.”

“There’s quite a lot brewing in Maelnaulde right now as it stands, and we need to wipe it away before we adopt any more specific strategies. I’m  _ hoping  _ that the resolution of the upcoming trials will eventually present us with the opening we’ve been waiting for.” Charlotte sighed. “Beyond that, however, I don’t know. Vlindrel is still shrouded in fog, and that same fog continues to swallow anyone who tries to pierce its veil. We’ve learned a great deal about its nature by way of examining the permanently vegetative husks it makes of the remains of those who attempted scrying through it, but beyond that, we’re dead in the water at the moment.”

“This can’t continue, Mistress. Something has to give,” Jeanne insisted.

“ _ I’m well aware, Marie! _ ” Charlotte replied, reining herself in immediately when she heard how testy that sounded to her own ears. No, it would not do to lose her composure, not even in front of Marie, the name of the woman she knew laid beneath the guise of Jeanne, just as she worked beneath the thin veneer that was Mercédès Lucerne, and as her parents, Rienna and Marique, had done before her. “I’m well aware. I’m well aware that the love of my life and our daughter were lost the day that fog descended. I’m well aware that we’re more than likely on a timer before they wind up dead or worse. The fact remains that until the situation becomes clearer, my hands are tied…”

“My apologies, Mistress, I…” Marie began.

“…Are in no way at fault, Marie,” Charlotte interrupted, rubbing at her temples to try and massage some of the stress away so that she could  _ think clearly. _ Charlotte did not care much for most people—even amusements like Sonja were only that. But Emily Greywing, the Crown Princess of the Kingdom of Vlindrel, had always managed to unmake her, always and invariably, in a way that few others could manage. Whenever she awoke to tear-stained pillows, or simply could not find sleep, it was the spectres of Emily and their daughter, Althia, born the very same day the fog descended, and the images her mind could conjure of the worst fates that could befall them that left the imprint of their long, cold fingers writhing like maggots in her mind. “I… Freya would know how to deal with this. She was always useless in court, but would know  _ exactly  _ what to do about this sort of situation. I don’t… I never had quite the genius for war she possesses.”

“No one does, Mistress,” Marie stated as she grew closer, attempting a soothing tone the way she always did when Charlotte’s missing sister, the demon Freya, came up in conversation, historically to widely varying degrees of success. “There’s a reason she’s known to be the best, and it’s certainly not through exaggeration or idle boasting. But we’ll get through this. You’re not alone anymore—I’m here with you, see? And between our pooled resources, we’ll either find a way out of this situation, or we’ll find your sister and get her to solve it for us. That’s why I’m here, remember? Me and my brother both. We’re here for you, and will aid you every step of the way. After all, isn’t that what vassals are for?”

_ And it has nothing to do with you wanting to see yourself in nuptial regalia, I’m sure, _ Charlotte thought to herself, not unkindly; Marie’s open and irrepressible vanity was one of her best traits in how cavalier she was in the display of what others might consider flaws or otherwise undesirable. Charlotte  _ lived  _ for the games of court, of plots within plots, of snares layered within snares, of counters and circumventions and underminings, just as Freya lived for war and every aspect of battle and conflict. Both of them were virtuosos who had elevated their craft to an art form—Freya being a master of murder, while Charlotte was a master of manipulation—but even Freya needed to enjoy times of peace, and likewise, Charlotte found Marie’s transparency a refreshing way to cleanse her palate. “Yes, I suppose you are correct. Thank you, Marie.”

“Of course. I’d like to think I’m your friend as well as your vassal,” Marie replied.

Charlotte arched a brow. “My dearest friend, I do believe that is a sentiment that your brother would decry as improper for one of your station!”

“Yeah, well, fuck him,” Marie said simply.

“I’d really rather not.”

“Ew. You know what I mean.”

“I do indeed,” said Charlotte; then she paused, leaning in and whispering conspiratorially into Marie’s ear. “I also do believe I can hear the beating of a tell-tale heart. Vermin, then, furtively skittering through the walls, scavenging their way through my bounty. Let us see, then, if the rat-catchers are equal to the task…”

* * *

_ Why do I continue to get myself into such obvious disaster scenarios? I told her it was a trap, didn’t I? Yes, I did. It was painfully obvious that it was a trap—she couldn’t possibly have missed the signs. But did she listen? Oh no! Use this opportunity to slip into the Silvern Basilica, Casimir, she said! It’ll be great, she said! Go off without a  _ fucking  _ hitch, she said! Fuck! _

These were the exact thoughts that ran through Casimir Hartigan’s mind as he pressed himself painfully against the walls of yet another alcove, holding his breath and forcing his heart to slow as yet more of the nephilim stalked right by his position. A master thief such as he should have known to call off the heist the moment he saw the target, laid eyes upon the massive gleaming structure scraping the heavens menacingly, far above him; he ought to have known immediately that the Silvern Basilica, having obviously not been crafted by mortal hands, was under no obligations to follow the logic of literally every other establishment, high-profile or otherwise, that he had ever successfully robbed blind—which was a very,  _ very  _ long list, thank you very much. And he  _ did,  _ which was what galled him; he knew exactly how awful of an idea this was, how terrible this heist would more than likely turned out, he wasn’t an idiot, he didn’t get this far by choosing gambles he had any significant chance of losing.

Yet despite this knowledge, Dorothea had managed to talk him into it. To follow through, in the spirit of his newfound kinship with Mami, as though Mami herself would have asked him to do this and he hadn’t volunteered, as if she would not have seen this was eleven malms of bad news and told him in no uncertain terms he was not allowed to go off snooping. He knew all that in retrospect, of course, but for the memory of that moment, and not for the first time, Casimir Hartigan cursed the fact that he had such a charismatic friend. Indeed, he cursed it up and down, by the gods above, and the gods below.

The amount of close calls he had had thus far was nothing short of alarming, together with the hair-raising feeling every cutpurse knew to recognise as the first and last warning they would get that things were about to go  _ ridiculously  _ wrong—the almost spectral sensation of being watched, of course—that had begun shortly after he broke off, and persisted even in sections of his route where there was no possibility that anyone was watching him. Despite this he could sense himself under scrutiny, under the withering regard of a lidless eye, patient and inexorable, wreathed in flame with how it seemed to sear into the nape of his neck like the tender kiss of a branding-iron. Something had been profoundly wrong since the start—he was a professional, he didn’t  _ get  _ jitters, and so he couldn’t possibly be imagining it—and yet the sunken cost of his infiltration even to this point was damning enough that he could not justify to himself the risk he would incur by bailing out right then. The irony did not escape him that in deciding it was too risky to turn back and thus continuing, the risk he would incur by turning back continued to multiply, moment by moment, like the albatross of an old man around his neck that grew progressively heavier.

Compared to the feeling of eyes upon him, the close calls were significantly easier to navigate; he might even have  _ enjoyed  _ himself over the challenge, if the acuity of the senses of the nephilim were remotely within the realm of what was possible for even the most remarkable mortals to achieve when they were listening for something they expected to hear, let alone simply in passing. Stalking the corridors was a little dicey because sometimes nephilim would come from junctions he had looked at and not seen, and sometimes from halls he had not only seen, but thoroughly checked to make sure were empty, and in the latter case, they came too quickly for them to have not been there beforehand, despite the evidence of his senses—senses he was, despite himself, beginning to seriously doubt.

If there was one thing to be thankful for, it was his disdain for magical forms of stealth. So many footpads swore by it and considered him a relic for his abstinence; yet, he had always found that magically muffling one’s footfalls left an  _ almost  _ imperceptible distortion, a slight absence of sound no one believed he had been able to pick out, even when he had demonstrated that aptitude exhaustively. Here, he had cause to believe that his staunch traditionalism with regards to his craft had saved his hide and had been the only way he had gotten as deep into the bowels of the seemingly unending structure as he had—given the sheer oddity of the situation, both aforementioned and unsaid, he had taken it as a given that the nephilim could have picked out the disparity much more keenly than him, and perhaps could even sense the presence of foreign magic as a beleaguered mariner could spot a lighthouse beacon. As it stood, however, it took every iota of his painstakingly-obtained skills of stealth and infiltration to remain at least as undetected as his own senses could verify as he slinked from shadow to shadow, from alcove to corner and then back again before any passers-by could reasonably spot him—a qualification that existed in open defiance of what his honed instincts were screaming at him incessantly with every step he took.

He padded quickly and quietly, as swiftly as he dared and as subtly as he could manage, around a corner, then two, then three, trying to get a sense of the layout; on the fourth turn that ought to have brought him back to his point of origin, he was in a completely different place than he ought to have been. With the distance he had travelled, he ought to have ended up ten paces away from the first turn; instead, he found himself in a long hallway, panelled with glass on all the walls up to the ceiling, rendered invisible by its distance; yet, instead of being reflective, this glass was all opaque, and though it had the shimmer of glass, it showed a similar image to that of matte metal.

_ Damn my rampant curiosity. It’s as much at fault for this as Dorothea for getting me in this unholy mess…  _ he reflected, cursing himself honestly as he began to walk down the odd corridor as though drawn by the gentle but insistent tug of some irresistible force. 

He continued past the walls, even after he realised that it wasn’t that they weren’t reflective, simply that they were not reflecting  _ him,  _ and down the marble flooring even as small motes of frost began to appear out of the corner of his eye, then not being there when he regarded them fully; and at the end of the corridor, there was a door. A large set of double-doors that his instincts immediately informed him was likely an atelier or treasury of some sort, no less, sat before him, looming ever larger with each step he took.

It was like something out of one of the storybooks he had stolen as a child, staring at the pictures uncomprehendingly, a tale out of myth of a forbidden passage beyond which the heroine must not step, containing as it did such enthralling mystery and tremendous sorrow that to look upon it was to proffer her very soul as tender in exchange. It was a cautionary symbol seemingly out of every childhood fantasy and dark, grisly legend of monsters and magic, and it appealed to that childish part of him he had thought long since dead and buried, the one who had once looked to the sky with hope, who had wished for the hunger pangs to stop with the blind faith that his prayers would one day be answered, only to have them betrayed over and over again with an almost gleefully spiteful malice.

It exhumed that lost and forgotten part of himself, reanimated, resurrected, and pulled inexorably to press his hands against the doors, pushing them open as though in a trance, and crossing the threshold beyond which all was dangerous and unknown, tragic and forbidden.

Casimir Hartigan did not notice the doors sweeping shut behind him, however, and nor did he notice the many items an obnoxiously wealthy collector would sell his soul for even one of that were lying on display about the vast chamber; instead, his gaze was fixed on the thing in the centre of the room, on a raised dais.

It was a mirror, he surmised; not one of glass, but carved by hands beyond mortality from Stygian ice into a slab that mimicked a mirror in every respect save for the flaws that invariably came from things crafted by the hands of those doomed to one day die. It was beautiful in a horrific, alien way that caused pain akin to that of an iron spike to be driven into the invisible spot behind his eye when he gazed upon it, though he could not look away, and nor could he particularly muster up the desire to do so.

The dais was raised and the steps were articulated well enough to afford traversal; thus did he ascend to the platform upon which the icy mirror stood, tall, ephemeral, and beckoning with a sense of unknowable temptation, of abomination that turned an eye of passive indifference upon the mortal realm and by its very existence drove men to gibbering madness. He stood, then, at last with only breath separating him from the ice, which radiated such a chill that he ventured his very marrow was soon to be coated in frost too cold to ever truly melt; yet, despite the physical sensation of the cold, he was transfixed, completely mesmerised at the sight of it.

For mirror though it may have been, Casimir nonetheless saw not his own image reflected in its abyssal depths, and instead what he looked upon was the image of a castle.

In terms of the sheer, terrifying absurdity of its construction, the Silvern Basilica looked like a common townhouse compared to the fortress he beheld; the land in which it rested was benighted, battered with a whirling blizzard that blanketed the ground in what appeared to be several metres of white snow, and being this close, he could even hear the echoes of how the winds  _ howled,  _ violent and merciless, like a freshly widowed woman’s heartrending wail. Yet, despite this, and despite the white-out that would have made it difficult for Casimir to see his hand in front of his face through its driving, immaculate blanket, he could see the castle quite clearly. Its towering walls, black and proud, rose forbiddingly out of the white, enclosing a city many times the size of Maelnaulde, perhaps the size of a country in and of itself; so it was a testament to the castle’s size, then, that it remained clearly visible from even his distant vantage, spiralling to the sky with slender spires that must have numbered in the many hundreds, perhaps even thousands, piercing the bleak heavens in their dizzying heights.

And in that moment, Casimir knew that what he was looking upon was not an image meant for mortal eyes to see—for as he stared at the castle…

_ …He could feel the castle staring back.  _

Tearing his eyes away with a great effort, aided in large part by the cloak of sheer uncomprehending dread that settled about him like a funeral shroud, cloying and constricting, the Grand Champion, consummate survivor that he was, staggered back, stumbling over himself as he turned away from the structure’s curious gaze, from the mirror’s wonder so ancient and grand and unknowable that ‘profoundly distressing’ was far too small a descriptor, and fled. Blind to all the room’s adornments that now seemed to jeer and scorn him for peeking beyond the veil that shielded mortal men from all that which was so profoundly beyond their ken as to give them an inkling of their true transitory insignificance, he ran, heedless of stealth, across the now seemingly infinite expanse between the dais and the door. Running like hellhounds snapped at his heels, he finally reached the threshold, pulling the doors open as he tasted true freedom.

But like anything else good about his life, it only lasted long enough for him to realise what it was before it was snatched away.

A ghastly grinning face white as marble with long crimson hair pinned in a high tail was the width of a blade from him, and the eyes that bored into his were blazing scarlet in a sea of pitch black, run through with veins of livid, unnatural red that made a brambled halo around the eye sockets in the deathly corpse-flesh. A giggle that was equal parts insane and psychopompous emanated from Death’s mouth of savage mirth, together with a couplet of words that doused Casimir’s final embers of hope.

“You’ll do.”

Then the pale grey corpse-lips seized his own in a fraction of an instant, and in his mind, a livid, wretched nightbloom reached full flourish… 

* * *

“I suppose I must apologise for thinking so highly of you.”

Mami found herself very quickly amending her ranking of the Silvern Basilica on the hierarchy of places she never wanted to find herself within again.

Of course, Casimir’s beaten and bloody body sprawled in a prone heap on the floor, breathing weakly and still with a pulse—she had checked—was aiding her greatly in that revised assessment. And it was a credit to the grave, sepulchral severity of the situation that even Dorothea found her quick tongue and razor wit dried and shrivelled, without even the barest of quips to put forth in an ill-advised attempt at lightening the mood with antagonism.

Not that Mami could blame her; given the fact that it was the morning after their arrival, and therefore they had been in Maelnaulde for less than a day, the fact that her machinations had landed them squarely on the prince of Maelnaulde’s personal shit list simply must have been the setting of a new and ambitious record regarding the speed with which her prodding had moulded the situation into the approximate shape of a pear.

Prince Mercédès sat, stately, serene, and unerringly severe, upon her pearl throne, with none of the joviality, playfulness, or graciousness of the day before to be found anywhere on her visage or in the posture of her body. She appeared for all the world to be the image of the ideal of nobility, an immutable arbiter of justice so poised, and the metallic gold of her eyes pinned them both in a very different fashion from the day before, though dressed and adorned in similar, almost identical, fashion. Around them were a few of the nephilim, none of whom Mami particularly recognised, but all of whom regarded the pair with silent scorn—the remaining three of their number having not been called for, and thus forced to remain confined to their lodgings for the time being—together with who Mami could only assume was the sister of Grand Duke Lucien, Duchess Jeanne of Rosenfaire, and thus the bride for the upcoming nuptials, dressed in a manner that was at once aggressively provocative and passively warlike, and perched with her rear resting atop one of the arms of the pearl throne.

“I appear to have done you a disservice by overestimating your faculties to such a drastic extent. I beg your indulgence,” continued the prince, her tone calm and placid but still biting and profoundly insincere. “Though I suppose it matters very little whether or not you deign to absolve me. I am more than capable of extracting forgiveness from you by force if I so wish. Correct me if I am mistaken, but are you not at least partly at fault for your companion’s current state, Dorothea?”

Dorothea flinched so hard she seemed to almost stagger, which perplexed and unnerved Mami in equal measure.

“Take your time. It’s not as though I have any obligations or duties to attend to, after all,” the prince encouraged, the frost in her airy tone a veiled admonition all its own. “I suppose I owe you some level of  _ gratitude _ for such a state of affairs coming to pass. It’s almost amusing, in a way—I had never thought to see a rabbit fastening its own snare. It is, in truth, a wondrous sight all its own. Though I suppose you had thought yourself the hunter in this little fable! It would be hilarious in its own absurdity were it not so profoundly unfortunate—though I must admit, I shall laugh regardless. But where are my manners? I have been filling with my own words the empty space where your grovelling should be. Go on, then—the floor is yours, to kneel or posture upon as you see fit.”

Mami was taken aback by the gleeful savagery in the prince’s smirk as those golden eyes that seemed to see entirely too much bored holes into Dorothea’s skull. Dorothea, in turn, wore an expression that was so uncharacteristically blank that it might as well have been an unliving effigy carved in stone relief, if not for her eyes flickering almost too quickly to follow in an attempt to, Mami assumed, locate every guard in the room, for all the good such considerations would do either of them at this point. Dorothea seemed to stir into motion to comply, lowering herself onto her knees, until she halted halfway through the motion and said, clearly and with perfect elocution, “Twenty-six.”

“Twenty-five, actually,” the prince replied with an air of insouciance so thick Mami believed it qualified as a fog as the sovereign checked her nails superciliously. “The last one is actually a statue, believe it or not.”

The nephilim exchanged looks with each other at this dialogue, and though their unspoken language was beyond Mami’s understanding, she could see her own confusion mirrored clearly in their bearings.

“You may leave us, ladies,” the prince commanded. “I have no further need of your skills at the moment, and each of you gossips as though you were thrice your age. And  _ do  _ remember to take the effigy with you in the course of egress, please and thank you.”

The nephilim bowed reverently and quickly began to file out of the chamber into the long shadows of the morning. The moment the last of them receded from the bounds of the room, Dorothea chuckled mirthlessly. “Forgive me, but I honestly had begun to believe you chronically disinclined to poke fun at me in such a manner.”

Mami could hold her tongue no further. “Are either of you ever going to stop speaking in riddles?!”

“They don’t seem particularly inclined to,” said Duchess Jeanne for the first time since they’d entered, her voice like the bubblegum of Haruhi’s youth, sweet but cloying and more than prepared to stick in your throat to suffocate you slowly if navigated carelessly. “But trust me, you get used to it.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, darling,” the prince jested, the genuine twist of her lips hinting strongly at a concealed in-joke. 

“So how much trouble am I actually in?” Dorothea asked.

“Far more than you’d like to be,” replied the sovereign with a shrug of her shoulders. “But then again, I’ve never known that not to be the case with you, so I doubt such a response is particularly illustrative of the pitfalls of the current situation into which you have so  _ gracefully _ stumbled. Whatever did you hope to accomplish, by the by, that you would sacrifice this man you have professed to have befriended in such a callous manner?”

“Dorothea, do you have something to tell me…?” Mami asked, her voice somewhere between a hiss and a snarl.

“Dorothea hosts about her neck so very many varieties of albatross that I am continually surprised breath yet finds its way into her lungs, and so I’d imagine she has quite a bit to divulge. It is, however, unfortunately not the time for such discussions—indeed, time is something of which we have very little at present,” said Prince Mercédès, her bearing all business.

“I wanted to see how you’d react,” Dorothea replied blithely. “How are we to play this game of shadows, after all, if we lack pieces on the board?”

“How quaint,” the prince remarked with a long-suffering expression. “But you ought not to aggrandise yourself too thoroughly, Dorothea—the victor of this match was decided before you even stepped up to the table, I’m afraid.”

“Says the woman who brought in a statue specifically to throw me off,” Dorothea retorted.

“We all have our little amusements to break up the monotony,” the prince said, unmoved. “Yours appears to be wasting my time.”

Dorothea gaped open-mouthed, her jaw flexing uncomprehendingly before snapping shut with a soft  _ clack.  _ “Well, with that, I suppose I shall take my leave that I might find a salve for my burns.”

“Be certain to acquire a spade while you’re at it, and keep it once you believe yourself to be done—knowing you, I have little doubt you’ll have significant need of it afore long.” The prince waved off the leader of the Warriors of Light, who bowed low and made a very swift withdrawal, looking for all the world like a sundered army quitting the field. And then the prince’s gaze of molten aurum fell upon Mami, with Mami alone left to bear it, even as the sovereign rose from her throne gracefully and began to approach with a stately, measured pace that nonetheless caused the white mage to feel suddenly very hemmed in. “So… _ boats. _ ”

Suddenly, she was drowning. She couldn’t breathe. She was on land, but she could not breathe, and despite the evidence of her senses, her mind  _ insisted _ that if she inhaled, no air would enter her lungs, only water, black and cold and Stygian as the grave of four times fifty mariners given to the restless deep. The knowledge that the prince was undergoing similar turmoil before her very eyes brought no comfort, only further blank confusion, and that remained even as the sensation released, sending them both to all fours, panting and gasping for air, their lungs working uselessly to dislodge imaginary seawater.

“Why would you  _ do  _ that to yourself?!” Mami protested.

“So that we might understand each other better,  _ Selene. _ ”

Mami stilled, something dark and old and unknown, at once benediction and psychopomp woven about each other as a caduceus, shifting and slithering beneath her skin. “…How do you know that name…?”

“I had your curiosity with the first demonstration. I am pleased to have secured your attention with the second,” Prince Mercédès replied as she stood once more, smoothing out the sudden wrinkles in her dress and piecing back together the image of the immaculate sovereign. “As to your question, I know that name as intimately as I do my own. After all, are we not, as our mutual friend once said, sisters in this Covenant of the Dark?”

“I have but  _ one _ sister, and you are not she,” Mami hissed.

The prince sighed. “You are correct, but only by half.  _ We  _ have but one sister, and  _ she  _ is not I, nor is she thee. She was stolen from us, dearest sister, but I have found her. I have found our dear Profane Nightmother—I have found our dear…”

“… _ Freya, _ ” Mami interjected, breathing the name out reverently, as though that collection of syllables was more precious and vital to her than gold. “Freya…Selene…  _ Charlotte?! _ ”

“In the flesh,” Charlotte said, smiling wanly. “Though I suppose it’s too much to hope for your memories to be restored to any appreciable capacity beyond that, so that much shall have to suffice, at least at present.”

“I am  _ so  _ confused…”

“Well within acceptable parameters, I assure you,” Charlotte sighed. “Or at least, so that wretched Farseeker has told me. They are wholly Freya’s creature, and so can be trusted implicitly, but it does not make them any less vexing to be around.”

“Farseeker…?” Mami asked, her tongue twisting around the familiar shape of the unfamiliar title.

“You’ve met them before,” said Charlotte. “They travel in the guise of Krile, ‘She of the Radiant Raiment,’ but in truth, they are, at least currently, known as Loki, of the Four Fiends.”

“Okay, I was  _ going  _ to be quiet when you insulted me—your pride is not worth your mission, Loki, I said to myself—but  _ excuse you,  _ Not-My-Real-Mom?!”

An unfamiliar voice made Mami jump and whirl around, and when she spotted nothing and whirled back, there Charlotte was, her face in her hand, while what was ostensibly a woman stood off to the side there, staring at the prince and looking quite thoroughly put out. And when Mami recognised the garish red-and-yellow garments together with the crimson hair, she gasped. “ _ Krile?! _ ”

The individual turned to face the white mage, now, and the animated rictus with its pale, ghastly flesh and blue-grey lips was shocking enough; the eyes, however, very nearly undid her, blazing scarlet in black sclera riddled with livid red veins that seemed to carry something far more sinister and malefic than blood, with how the veins brambled and webbed out into the immediate area of the eye socket, pulsing and throbbing grotesquely. The overdone expression of exasperation followed by a sigh so heavy it could only be performative mockery twisted the face in a way that belied its obvious mortific complexion so thoroughly that Mami was suddenly very much unconvinced even a living face could be so exaggerated and dramatic. “ _ Yes,  _ I am Loki. I had  _ hoped  _ to keep the deception going for a while longer, but it  _ seems  _ Sister Killjoy over here just couldn’t let me have my fun!”

“Loki here has been instrumental in the endeavour of locating our sister,” Charlotte explained in a tight voice, using a hand to indicate the walking corpse. “Their judgement has proven sound so far, and so I have elected to bow to their superior expertise in this arena. But the situation is tenuous at best—we balance on a knife’s edge—and enemies some of us had hoped could remain forgotten shall soon come forth from the woodworks to put an end to our quest. This cannot be allowed to happen, obviously, but with your station in our coterie, all our preparation could come to naught were you to misstep even unknowingly.”

“Mother thinks the world of you both. It is by her directive that either of you yet draw breath,  _ despite  _ my own misgivings on the matter—but as long as her orders that both of you be kept safe and out of danger stand, I supposed you could at least make yourselves useful and aid me in my duties. I hope, for your sake, that her faith in you both is not misplaced, of course _. However, _ ” and here the corpse  _ grinned,  _ undying malice radiating from too-white teeth, “I shall stand prepared should she give me leave, and believe me,  _ nothing _ would make me happier than to eliminate the threat you both pose to Mother with your  _ shortcomings. _ ”

“You want to… _ what,  _ now?” Mami balked. “Charlotte, why are we listening to this vile creature? How do you know it hasn’t lied to us? We can’t trust it!”

“Rude! Mother  _ most certainly  _ would not approve of you using such uncouth language to refer to her most humble and devoted servant!” the corpse huffed in mock-offence, the grin widening. “Someone needs an attitude adjustment~! But how shall we do this, dear Loki? Elementary, dear Loki! Ingenious, in fact! Why, it’s just as the good book says! Spare the rod…”

“ _ …spoil the child. _ ”

And then Mami knew no more.

* * *

It was morning, and a ceiling she did not recognise hung over her head. She blinked slowly as her senses returned to her, leaving her with a few certainties: firstly, that her sister was alive in the city; secondly, that she was in danger; thirdly, she had a  _ second  _ sister, and finally, as an addendum, that second sister, who happened to be the prince, was her only hope of snatching their remaining sister from the jaws of horror. But before she could even truly get out of the bed the Warriors of Light’s lodgings provided for them, the person whose voice she  _ least  _ wanted to hear right then speared through her skull like the white-hot knife of a migraine.

` “I believe this is what you would call a ‘bruh’ moment?” Dorothea remarked, her voice so full of cheek Mami was surprised her mouth still worked and hadn’t been replaced with a mound of rosy, solid flesh.

Needless to say, Mami was in no mood for such tomfoolery. “Shut it.”

“Whatever you say, Stone Cold Steve Austin,” came the other woman’s easy retort.

Mami paused to consider, curse, cringe, and other c words that she thought might behoove her to see to before responding. “…Okay, I might have impaired judgement when I’m drunk, but  _ not  _ impaired memory. I  _ know _ I didn’t tell you about him, so how the ever-living fuck did you learn about that?!”

“I didn’t,” Dorothea shrugged, her grin broad enough to make the Cheshire Cat look dour by comparison. “I suppose the name just reminds me of the sound glass makes when it shatters.”

“I…”

“Would it help if I said it was the voices in my head?” she continued, almost as though Mami hadn’t spoken at all, though the insufferably smug pleasure in her voice was indication enough of her awareness that she was successfully getting under the white mage’s skin. “Because, you know, they council me and understand. They talk to me.”

“One day, I _will_ stab you. I’m not sure when or how, but it _will_ happen.”  
“Then that’s the bottom line, because Dorothea said so!” she cried bombastically with a dramatic bow.

“Eat a dick.”


End file.
